Scars of War
by sss979
Summary: Murdock unwillingly relives memories of Vietnam while the Team is commissioned to help someone from his past. Formatting fixed. Sorry 'bout that! :-P
1. Prologue

AUTHOR: sss979

TITLE: Scars of War

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: Murdock unwillingly relives memories of Vietnam while the Team is commissioned to help someone from his past

WARNINGS: Wartime violence.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the A-Team. Also, many of these stories from Vietnam are based on real events, people, and places that I uncovered while talking to vets and researching the war. So some of these stories are real testimonies from real people, changed as necessary to fit the A-Team.

**PROLOGUE**

**1969**

"How up-to-date are you on current events, Smith?"

Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith was still sizing up the man who had summoned him all the way the C-base at Pleiku. He'd never met this general – they apparently ran in different circles – and he hadn't had time to ask around for the other soldiers' opinions of him. Until he knew what kind of man he was dealing with, he played it safe.

"Depends on the event, Sir," Smith answered calmly, completely self-assured. His posture, his demeanor, even the glint in his eyes radiated confidence. He made sure of it. "At ease" in the bright, sterile office, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back, he watched every move, every flicker of every expression on the general's face, reading him like a book. He didn't possess the same confidence that Smith did. It wasn't surprising, though; few men did.

It didn't matter that they were fighting a devastating war – a war that armies before them had lost. Colonel Smith was the kind of man who would be the last man standing on the battlefield, convinced that he could take down every last enemy with his bare hands, if need be. At least, this was the impression that he intended to give General Carl Davids. He knew it wouldn't come as a shock; Davids had gone through General Ross Westman in Da Nang to request him and his team. He'd asked for the best. Westman had sent Smith, a man six months into his "second tour." No need to complicate the definition of "tour" with how long Smith had actually been in Southeast Asia. Nor was there any reason to point out that it was a tour that would last until he died or the war was over, whichever came first. He'd put in his request for a voluntary indefinite status weeks ago. Most of his team had done the same.

"What do you know about A Shau?" General Davids asked, pausing near the window with his pipe in his.

Smith eyed the general cautiously as he contemplated the question. "I know that the camp was lost three days ago," he answered, safely. In fact, the incident at A Shau was a current event that he happened to be particularly informed about. The camp's XO had been a close personal friend in Korea. In addition, Smith was acquainted with several others stationed there.

General Davids turned, and watched him carefully for a moment, then gestured for him to continue. "Please."

Smith took a deep breath, tipping his head up a little. "A Shau is an A-Team camp about thirty miles southwest of Hue," he recalled, "adjacent to the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We had ten Green Berets out there along with about two hundred CIDG and a couple Air Commando units. Last week, the camp's XO sent word that there might be an attack, so Nha Trang sent a Mike Force. When the attack came, there was no stopping it. After two days of fighting, the camp was evacuated."

Davids studied him carefully for a moment, then nodded. "You know quite a bit."

"I used to command two of those men before they left Special Ops," Smith said flatly. "And Captain Blake and I did a rotation together in Korea."

"Yes, I know."

A long silence followed that unassuming statement. It helped Smith to form his opinion of this guy - and it wasn't an entirely favorable one. He didn't trust him. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that Davids didn't seem to be offering much in the way of trust, either. Smith wouldn't have minded it so much if it had simply been stated from the beginning. But all of this prerequisite beating around the bush irritated the shit out of him. It was a game – "How much do you know so that I can determine how much I have to explain?" Perhaps more importantly, how much Smith knew determined how much information would be withheld.

Bureaucratic bullshit, special clearance, classified information… it all meant precisely dick to him. Too much time in the jungle - too many kills and too many men lost - had made him care less for red tape than for the REMFs who put it there. Smith's concern was - and always had been - getting the job done quickly and efficiently, sometimes against overwhelming odds. All he needed was a target and a time frame. He didn't much know or care about anything else. Perhaps General Westman had failed to mention that.

"The NVA had four battalions," Davids explained, pacing back to his desk. "They also had a bunch of sympathizers in the CIDG. The weather was on their side, too. Lot of cloud cover we couldn't fly through on the first night. Twenty antiaircraft guns for anyone who'd try to fly under it." Davids turned, his look serious as he studied the colonel. "We started the battle with seventeen Green Berets, six LLDB, 143 Nung soldiers from the Mike Force, 210 CIDG, seven interpreters, and 51 civilians in the camp."

Smith offered a polite smile. "Your recall is impressive. That's an awful lot of numbers to remember."

Davids ignored him, sensing the hint of sarcasm, and turned away again. He was pacing. Uneasy. Smith kept a watchful eye on him. "Shortly before 0400 on the morning of March 9, the NVA began a mortar attack that lasted for two and a half hours. Halfway through it, they attacked the south wall, but were held off. We had a very difficult time getting any kind of air support or supplies – or even evacuating the wounded - because of the weather and their goddamn rocket fire. Two Marine CH-34s made it in, but one of them crashed. We also lost an AC-47. The next morning, the bastards did it all over again. This time when they breached the wall, the 141st CIDG Company turned on us and deserted to the enemy."

Smith's eyes narrowed. There were few things he hated more than reports like that. The Yards he had worked with were invaluable assets to any team he took out. True, he was only assigned those who had already been seasoned in the field and at times, even they were skittish when they saw the odds stacked against them. But they would never desert to the enemy. The thought was appalling, even offensive.

"Anybody still alive went to the communications bunker in the north corner of the camp." Davids sighed deeply as he paced back and forth slowly, recalling the events with such a melodramatic tone, Smith would've thought he was actually there himself. "It got worse. We ended up having to run air strikes on the south and east wall of our own camp. Captain Blake made the decision to abandon the camp at 1500 hours on March 10. But when the Marines landed the rescue choppers, the remaining CIDG panicked and overran them. It got so bad, our men had to shoot into the crowd just to get things under control. They left with only 60 of the remaining soldiers from the camp. We don't know exactly how many of those left behind were still alive at the time, but those who still could ran into the jungle and we've been picking them up ever since."

"How many did we lose?" Smith asked. He had a sneaking suspicion that the general would be able to quote the numbers off the top of his head.

"Of the 210 CIDG soldiers, more than half were evacuated and most left behind had deserted to the enemy. 75 Mike Force died, 33 wounded, fifteen MIA. Our guys had five dead, ten wounded."

Well, what do you know? He'd been right about the number recall. But as he quickly did the math, he frowned. "That doesn't add up."

"And that's why you're here."

Smith watched the man carefully, wary of his tight smile. "There are two Americans out there, MIA," Davids continued. "One of them, First Sergeant Alan Parker with the Mike Force, has a fairly high security clearance. We need him back."

"What makes you think he's still alive?"

The general sighed. "We can't know that he is. But I want you to find out. There's seventeen men unaccounted for and any of them might still be alive. Your object is to bring Parker out, but I'd like to see some of those other men recovered, too."

Smith stared back at the general for a long moment as he contemplated what, exactly, he was being asked to do. "What are we calling this operation, sir?"

"Call it whatever you want, Colonel," Davids deadpanned.

Smith raised a brow, questioningly. He hadn't expected that response. "Sir?"

Davids sighed deeply and looked up. He suddenly looked very old, and very tired. "I'll be perfectly honest with you," he started after a long pause. "I'm giving you complete jurisdiction over this operation because it is going to be completely off the books. You go in with your team and you do whatever it is you do. You bring that man back. And you let me handle the paperwork."

Smith studied him very carefully, cautiously. Why keep a search and rescue off the books? His team did this sort of thing on a weekly basis. "In other words," he realized slowly, "you've been ordered to leave this alone. And you want me to do it because you know my team can do it cleanly."

Suddenly, it was beginning to make sense that Davids had gone out of his way to request his team. What didn't make sense was why this had to be kept quiet. Smith didn't think he'd get an answer to that question. But if he was really honest, he didn't care – so he didn't bother to ask.

"The paperwork on this assignment is going to reflect that you took A-5296 to a recon mission twenty miles south of A Shau," Davids informed him.

An amused smile crossed Smith's face as he considered that. "Depending on who you're trying to sell that explanation to," Smith said, "you may have some trouble making it convincing when Parker shows up here, safe and sound."

"That's my problem, not yours."

Smith watched him for a long moment, then looked away, considering it carefully. This was not a matter of dodging red tape. He was actually intending to falsify the records in order to get that man out. It was no big deal to Smith; he'd done it before, personally. But this general wasn't even Special Forces. Most of the higher ups in other divisions were not so anxious to lie on paper. Smith's opinion of this officer was changing.

Whether for the information or for the man, that soldier had taken priority over the bureaucratic bullshit. It took balls for a regular general to make a call like that, and Hannibal respected any man who would. Particularly since Davids was putting his rank, if not his entire career, on the line. And he was doing it without a flicker of hesitation.

Paperwork aside, it was a risky assignment. Aside from the obvious danger of an extraction of a POW – if Parker was even still alive - they would have to do it with no air support, no communication with the base, and no rescue if they failed. If they were caught or killed, they did it while disobeying their "official orders." But if it succeeded, the men who had been – for all intents and purposes – left for dead, would get to go home to their families.

And Smith's team would not fail. It was just that simple.

"You said complete jurisdiction, sir," he pointed out. He looked back at the general. "How complete did you mean?"

"Once you're out the door, Smith, I don't want to know what you did or how you did it. I just want our men back."

Colonel Smith felt a smile come across his face as he considered those words. That sounded like complete jurisdiction to him. Apparently this guy knew how this game was played. It didn't take Smith long to come to the conclusion that he knew Davids had expected all along. "Sounds like my kind of operation, Sir."


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

**1985**

"Come on, Hannibal, I really like this girl." Murdock was almost to the point of begging. "I been seein' her two months now an' I only get to see her during visiting hours or when I can sneak out, but I always got to get back before morning."

Hannibal appeared to be ignoring him as he threw more supplies into the back of the van. Murdock followed on his heels, like an overly energetic puppy. "She comes out twice a week to the hospital and it's a hundred-mile drive for her! I promised her I'd spend some time with her this weekend and it's just a perfect opportunity. Come on, it's not like she'll get in the way."

Leaning against the side of the van, Face was watching with amusement, arms crossed over his chest. "Maybe you should try getting down on your knees, Murdock," he suggested with a slight smirk.

Murdock took the advice, ignoring the sarcasm, and dropped to his knees, crawling behind Hannibal with hands clasped in front of him. "Pleeease? Please please please..."

"Doesn't make any difference to me, Murdock."

The offhanded, casual tone of the response didn't detract from his joy. He sprang to his feet. "Aw, man, this is gon' be awesome!" He hurried to the front seat of the van, passing Face without so much as a glance.

Behind him, he heard a quiet chuckle. "Think he's really got it in for this girl, Hannibal."

He didn't hear the response. He wasn't really listening. He was listening to the sound of the ringing phone, waiting for her to pick up. It only took three rings. "Hello?"

His smile broadened a little as soon as he heard her voice, and he rested his head back on the passenger seat, eyes closed. "Morning, pretty lady. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No," she answered. He could hear the smile in her voice. "I've been up. How are you?"

"I'm great. Hey, listen." He opened his eyes and sat forward a little. "You remember how I said to keep the weekend open? That I was gon' come and spend some time with you?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, look, I got an even better idea." He glanced back, along the side of the van where Face had been standing, but had now moved on. "Friend of mine got this great little cabin way up in the mountains up in Colorado. We're gon' go up an' spend a few days." He paused for a moment, watching his fingers as he ran them slowly along the dashboard. "You wanna come?"

"When are you leaving?"

"Now."

She laughed. "Now? I have appointments this afternoon. I can't just –"

"Come on, Kelly, I really wanna see you." That same pleading tone was just a little bit softer with her than with Hannibal. "Wouldn't it be great just to get away for a few days? Way up in the mountains with no civilization for miles..."

She sighed audibly. "That would be great."

"I'll pick you up in an hour."

She hesitated, not answering until she'd fully considered it. "Okay," she finally agreed. He smiled broadly. "I'll see if I can get Stacy to come in a little early. She was going to take care of things for me this weekend so –"

"Great!"

"We'll be back by Monday, though?"

"Unless we decide we just want to stay out there forever." He grinned, glancing to the side as Face perched in the open doorway with one hand up against the top of the frame and the other on his hip.

She laughed quietly. "I'll see you in an hour."

"Okay. I love you."

Face raised a brow at that. The smirk on his lips warned Murdock that as soon as he hung up this phone, he was going to be harassed for this. He didn't mind, particularly. At least he could say with absolute certainty that it was worth it.

"I love you, too."

He hung up the phone. Face didn't even wait for him to pull his hand away from it. "Love you?" he challenged with grin. "You're not getting serious about this girl, are you?"

He stepped back as Murdock pushed his way out of the van, still beaming from ear to ear. "I told you, Faceman, I really like her. A whole lot."

"Kelly, right?" Face followed a few steps behind as Murdock walked to the back of the van. "That girl the bounty hunters went after?"

"Actually, they were after me," Murdock corrected. He paused, and spun around, head tipped back as he considered. "No, come to think of it, they were after you."

"Sure you won't come with us, Face?" Hannibal interrupted, glancing up as BA emerged from the motel room carrying one last backpack.

"Camping? Are you nuts?"

"It's not really camping," Hannibal pointed out. "It's a cabin. Camping requires tents."

"I'll stay here, thanks." Face waved off the thought of camping the way he would have dismissed a bottle of cheap wine – with an arrogant smile. "You all have a great time. I'll be sipping champagne in an air-conditioned penthouse suite."

"Let's go!" BA ordered, trudging past the three of them. "I wanna get there by dark!"

"We've got to make a stop first," Hannibal informed him, climbing into the passenger seat.

"What for?"

"To pick up Murdock's girlfriend," Hannibal answered with a grin.

BA looked up suddenly, wide-eyed. "Murdock's what?"

*X*X*X*

"You better make this quick, fool!" BA shot. "I wanna get there before dark. I don't like drivin' in the mountains in the dark."

Murdock was already vaulting out the side of the van. "It'll only take me a minute," he called back, jogging toward the porch and taking the steps two at a time. As he reached the door, it opened before he even had a chance to knock. He immediately swept the woman inside into his arms, twirling her around as she shrieked in surprise.

"Murdock!" She laughed as he set her back down in the living room. "My gosh, I don't think I've ever seen you in such a good mood!"

"Oh, I'm in a great mood, baby," he smiled, taking her face in both hands and kissing her soundly. "Where's your stuff? This is gon' be great!"

"It's right over there." She pointed in the direction of the sofa.

He headed over, and she followed a step behind. "Man, I used to love camping as a kid," he rambled excitedly. "All that fresh air and sunshine... Hardly ever get to do stuff like that anymore. Think the last time we did anything even remotely like camping we ended up dealin' with these crazy bank robber types who robbed an armored car. And then the park rangers called the military police 'cause they recognized us and we had to cut our whole vacation down to a single day just 'cause it was gettin' waaaaaaay too crowded in those woods. But this time..." He stopped so suddenly - turning to her with a big smile - that she almost ran right into him. With one hand, he picked up the backpack on the sofa and with the other, he circled her waist, pulling her close.

"This time, it's not gon' be like that 'cause this time it's just gon' be fun and enjoyable... and relaxing..." His words started to trail off as his thoughts wandered. "Quiet... romantic..." She felt her eyes slide closed as his lips touched hers. "We get to spend the whole weekend together without havin' to worry who's listenin' to us talk or how long we got 'fore I gotta get back..." Slowly, he kissed her and smiled as she melted into his arms. "And I get to make love to you under the stars and wake up with you in my arms when the sun comes up."

She sighed deeply, opening her eyes again to look up at him. "Sounds like heaven," she admitted.

"Come on, let's go!" His energy returned so suddenly, he almost pulled her off her feet as he started toward the door, taking her hand in his.

He paused just long enough to let her lock the front door behind her, then ran to the van that was still idling in the driveway with the side door open. He stood behind her with a hand on her back as she stepped up. The moment she sat down, Hannibal turned and offered a hand. "I think we met briefly," he started. "But we were never really introduced. I'm Hannibal Smith."

"Kelly Stevens," she smiled back, shaking his hand.

Murdock tossed her bag into the back of the van and sat down. "Kelly's a veterinarian," Murdock added. "She takes care of all kinds of animals."

"Shut the door, Murdock! We gotta go!"

Kelly blinked at the abrupt tone from the driver's seat, and stared at Murdock as he slammed the side door shut. "That's BA," he gestured, for her benefit. "He'd shake your hand, but he has an image to uphold. He wouldn't wanna seem too friendly."

She opened her mouth to respond, but clearly had no words. Hannibal smiled in her direction as Murdock set to the task of fastening his seatbelt. "Don't let it bother you, Miss Stevens. We're happy to have you along."

"Thank you," she smiled. "And please. Call me Kelly."

**1969**

"Someone here to see you, sir."

Colonel Smith didn't look up. "Send him in."

The tent flap whisked back into place, but was moved aside again a moment later. He didn't immediately look up as he heard the shuffle of footsteps come into the makeshift office. Instead, he finished with the paperwork on his desk – the last of the requests he had to fill out for the immediate transfer of his men out of Duc Co, the Forward Operating Base where they had been stationed for their latest assignment. It hadn't been a full twenty-four hours from the time that they'd set foot back on the base when Smith had received the urgent summons to Pleiku. But that was nothing new…

Once he'd finished signing the paper, he looked up to see a man in green fatigues standing at the doorway. "Sir!" the soldier saluted. "First Lieutenant H.M. Murdock, Air Force, 20th Helicopter Squadron, 2nd Air Division."

Smith laughed. He'd not seen a greeting that formal since he'd set foot on this God-forsaken soil. "I know who you are, Lieutenant. I called you here, remember?"

"Yes, sir."

The man stood, eyes forward, back straight, ready for anything. He was guarded. Smith couldn't begin to guess what he expected he was doing here, but clearly he wasn't expecting a commendation. "At ease, Lieutenant," Smith granted, sitting back in his chair. "You're not in trouble."

The man relaxed just a little, shifting his stance. But he was still tense, still anticipating something bad. It was written all over his face. He didn't even look at Smith as the older man studied him carefully. He was younger than Smith had expected. From the man's reputation, he would've expected someone older, with more experience. Of course, if he'd been much older he probably would've had more sense, too. The reckless abandon that highlighted H.M. Murdock's short Vietnam service record was part of what had caught Smith's eye. The man was born to fly. More specifically, he was born to fly in combat.

"Have any idea why I asked you here?"

Lieutenant Murdock sighed. "I'm going to take a wild guess that it has something to do with the incident at A Shau," he offered. If there was any emotion whatsoever in his voice – and Hannibal wasn't sure that there was – it was only a hint of disgust.

"The incident?" Smith asked.

Murdock took a deep breath, straightened, and clenched his jaw. "If you haven't already heard this, you're the first person I've talked to in days who hasn't." His cold eyes drifted to Smith's face. "And if you haven't heard it, I can't think of a single reason why you'd be calling me here."

Smith studied him, keeping his smile well hidden. The lieutenant was only half-right. He was here because of his "incident" at A Shau. But unlike every other superior he'd faced in the past few days, Smith didn't want to chew his ass for it. "How in the hell do you pull off a court martial and a recommendation for the Medal of Honor in the same day?"

"Not just the same day, sir," Murdock answered flatly. "Actually, it was the same act."

"Why don't you tell me about it?"

Murdock stood silent for a moment, forming his words. Then his eyes flickered to the folder on the desk. "You've already read about it. So what is it you want to hear from me?"

Smith let his hand rest on top of the manila folder. "You stole a Skyraider, Lieutenant," Smith pointed out, amused.

"Borrowed," Murdock corrected firmly. "I borrowed it, sir."

"You borrowed it for a mission you were totally uninvolved in. And specifically against your orders. You flew it into enemy-occupied territory without any clearance whatsoever to even operate the plane. You're a Huey pilot. What the hell were you doing in a Skyraider?"

"Choppers aren't the only thing I've flown, Colonel. I didn't start flying the Huey until I knew I was coming here." His eyes shifted and looked straight at Smith. "But I'm sure you know that, too."

Colonel Smith smiled. He did, in fact, know that. He knew anything about this man that had made it to paper. He also knew that paper only recorded bits and pieces of a man, and his story. "What made you change your mind?"

"Change my mind?"

"About flying a chopper instead of a plane." Smith studied him carefully. "You used to fly with the Thunderbirds. Seems like a bit of a downgrade."

"I wanted to be closer to the troops, sir," Murdock answered coldly. "And I knew I'd be damn good at it. Plus I didn't have much of a choice. It's where they sent me."

Smith pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the end, and held it between his teeth as he grabbed a box of matches from off the table. He wasn't sure which of those two answers to believe. So he chose to believe them both. He didn't figure the man was going to lie to him under this kind of pressure. Not over something so seemingly unimportant.

"So tell me about A Shau."

"What about it, sir?"

"Tell me what happened."

Murdock was quiet for a moment before he responded. "Captain Blake called for an air strike on the south and east wall. I was in the radio control center and I heard the call come through. I went. There were four of us flying. Captain Paul Tittle took a hit in the cockpit canopy and had to turn around. Major Anthony Mathers crash landed on the camp's landing strip and hid in a ditch while we tried to cover him with 20mm cannon fire. But the rescue chopper wasn't going to get there in time. Their ETA was still twenty minutes out when I landed and turned the plane around to where he was hiding. The other guys were out of ammo, so they just flew low. I picked him up and got the hell out of there. Took 19 bullet holes in the Skyraider, but I got him out unharmed."

"You landed on that airstrip after it had been torn up by two days of fighting?" Smith questioned, skeptically.

"Yes, sir, I did." Murdock was glaring at the tent wall again. "Brought it to a stop just before I'd have hit a fuel dump, turned it around, picked up Major Mathers and took off again."

"How long was that?"

Murdock's eyes turned to the colonel and he raised a brow, surprised by the question. "Sir?"

"How long were you on the ground?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "A few minutes. I wasn't exactly looking at my watch."

Smith studied him for a long moment. "Why did you 'borrow' that plane, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Did you think they wouldn't notice?"

"To tell you the truth, sir, I didn't care if they noticed."

"Why?"

"Because that camp needed help."

"They had it."

"They needed me," Murdock clarified.

Smith blinked, a little surprised. But before he had a chance to respond, Murdock sighed deeply. "Alright, look," he started. "I'm up against a court martial anyways so I'm just gonna cut the crap."

Smith gave a broad smile at that. "Please do."

"You're leading an SOG unit into A Shau. You want me to fly you, or you wouldn't have called me here. And I want to fly you. But unfortunately, there's a couple of MPs right outside waiting to escort me to Saigon and they're prob'ly gonna fly me outta the country. So unless you got some special trick up your sleeve for making this all go away, I can't help you. I'm sorry."

Smith took a few puffs from his cigar, considering the young pilot's words. "Actually, the mission is not particularly near A Shau," he clarified. "It's about twenty miles south."

Lieutenant Murdock's eyes fixed again on the tent wall. "I'm sure it is, sir," he agreed flatly.

Smith almost couldn't contain the chuckle at that response. It wasn't sarcasm. He'd used the tone of a man accepting an order. But the way that his emotionless eyes had immediately diverted away suggested that his response would have been exactly the same if Smith had just told him that the sky was green.

"So you want a second crack at them?" Smith assumed, eyeing him.

Lieutenant Murdock's eyes flashed as he continued to stare at the tent fabric. "I want to smear their blood all over my face like war paint, sir, but that's not why I'm here."

Smith grinned. "An interesting image."

He studied the man's eyes carefully. There was something there, hidden behind those eyes, that piqued his interest. Past the cold emptiness of war, there was something deep and lost. Maybe even dangerous. He didn't know what it was, but he liked it immediately, instinctively.

"So why are you here?"

Murdock hesitated, wary of a trap. "Because you called me here," he reminded.

"No, that's not good enough."

Smith didn't offer anything more as Murdock slowly looked at him. He just waited. After a long silence in which Lieutenant Murdock sized him up in every which way, his eyes narrowed into slits and he replied. "I'm here because if you intend to get anywhere near that camp, you're going to need the best goddamn pilot in the United States Air Force to fly you there. And that'd be me."

Smith grinned. "That's a good reason," he nodded.

Murdock didn't respond. He didn't flinch. But his eyes were on fire as he studied the colonel.

"I've put in a request to have you, specifically, on this assignment," Smith informed him. "I don't know exactly how that'll work out for your court martial, but I do know that I can be very persuasive. I'll get you cleared to fly again, and you'll be at the controls. Are you up to that?"

If the lieutenant had any reaction at all, it was only the dark shadow that passed over his eyes. "Yes, sir."


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

**1985**

"We here."

Hannibal opened his eyes, awakening from his light sleep to the sound of a gravel road crunching beneath the tires. Whatever BA's reason for wanting to arrive before dark, he'd been adamant about it. They hadn't even stopped to eat except for what they could grab at the gas stations. Now the sun was going down, and they were finally pulling into the long, winding driveway, passing through the dense trees and toward the cabin.

Kelly had fallen asleep about three hours back and once she had, the constant stream of chatter from Murdock had ceased, much to BA's relief. Hannibal glanced behind him to see if Murdock was still awake. He was. With a flashlight in one hand and a two-inch-thick book in the other, he seemed engrossed in whatever he was reading. At least he was quiet.

They parked the van, and Hannibal stepped out, stretching on his way to the door of the cabin. A pistol was tucked into his belt, resting against the small of his back, but it was only there out of habit. He expected this to be a relaxing weekend. And he had to admit, they could all really use a relaxing weekend.

The cabin was huge. Hannibal's eyes wandered over it, and the surrounding trees, as he walked up the steps to the front door. He had a key, and as he stepped in and looked around, he had to admit he was a little surprised by the extravagance. "Cabin in the woods" didn't quite describe this place. It was instead the sort of place a king might go for a weekend getaway. Leather sofas and a decorative stone fireplace with a bearskin rug in one corner, a full bar complete with dozens of unopened bottles in the other. The kitchen was on the other side of an island, beyond the stairs that went up to the bedrooms on the second floor, and there was a large gallery on the second floor overlooking the living room. The entire west wall was made of glass, and he could see the outline of the trees and the calm surface of a small lake at the bottom of the hill. In the distance, the sun was sinking into the mountains.

"Wow," BA murmured. "Face really outdid himself this time."

Hannibal chuckled. "I think he realizes that as long as we're here, we're not in LA looking for another case. The longer we want to stay, the longer his vacation is, too."

Murdock poked his head in the door behind him. But if he even noticed the lavish accommodations, he said nothing about them. "Hey, we're gon' go for a walk," he informed them. "We'll be back in a little bit."

Hannibal nodded. "Don't wander too far until we've had a chance to survey this place in the daylight."

A confident smile answered him. "We ain't goin' far, Colonel."

He slipped back out the door without another word. Hannibal watched as he jumped down the steps, took Kelly's hand, and skipped off into the trees like a child at a carnival. A smile crossed the colonel's face.

"Man," BA grumbled, "I dunno what she sees in him. But at least he ain't talkin' to his imaginary dog and actin' a fool while she's around."

Hannibal smiled. "Leave him alone, BA," he chided. "I haven't seen his eyes light up like that since the first time we broke him out of the hospital."

*X*X*X*

Kelly gasped as her back was suddenly pressed up against the wide trunk of a tree a few feet from the path. With his hands around her wrists, guiding her arms up above her head, Murdock kissed her, stealing what little breath she had left following the impact. He'd grabbed a blanket before they walked away from the van, but he didn't use it. It was on the grass in a heap as he stripped her shirt up over her head, not bothering to unbutton it. He shrugged his arms out of his jacket as her hands immediately came down to grip the bottom of his shirt. Gasping for breath and in a tangle of limbs, they struggled to undress themselves and each other. Finally, they fell onto the blanket and somehow managed to spread it out on the cool ground in the midst of their frenetic kisses and desperate groping.

The sex was amazing. It always was.

In the quiet moment of reflection that followed, breathless and contented, Kelly found herself smiling as she listened to their breathing slow again. Her head was resting on his chest, fingers stroking lightly up and down his side as her mind wandered. Lying on the blanket under the stars and the low-hanging moon, she'd never been happier in her entire life.

"I love you..."

He tipped his head up to look at her, and smiled. "Love you, too."

She looked back, and kissed him softly, smiling again as his hand moved up into her hair. "I've missed you so much."

"Mmm..." He stared up at her, eyes dancing as he smiled. "I've missed you too. Could you tell?"

She laughed quietly, then relaxed again on his chest. She breathed deeply as she watched her hand trace light, invisible designs on his chest. "How did you manage to check yourself out for the whole weekend?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, uh..." She glanced up at his slight hesitation and he smiled with that familiar, mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Face checked me out."

"He can do that?" she asked innocently.

A quiet chuckle. "Yeah. He can do that."

She sighed softly, resting her head again. "He should do it more often," she whispered. "I could get used to this."

His chest rose and fell again as he breathed deeply, and she closed her eyes as he stroked her hair gently. "I gotta be careful how much time I spend away."

"Why?"

"Well, 'cause it is kinda against the rules." The dulled nails scratching her scalp relaxed her so much, she barely even heard him. "I don't wanna lose my government subsidized room and board."

She glanced up at him again and saw him smiling. "Is that why you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Stay there?"

He shrugged. "It's part of it. Pretty sweet deal, if you ask me."

She shifted, turning onto her stomach with her hands folded over each other, and set her chin on her fingers. "What's the other part?"

He buried his fingers in her hair, holding her head gently. "It's complicated," he whispered with a smile.

"Well, I know that," she grinned back. "You told me that a long time ago. But you never really told me what was so complicated about it."

One look at the way his eyes moved over her face told her that he wasn't trying to think of a way to clarify it now, either. He was simply avoiding the question and moving on to other things. She decided to push her luck a little further. "You're not crazy, Murdock," she whispered.

"Sure I am," he assured her. "Just ask my shrink."

"No, you're not," she protested. Her brow furrowed as she watched his eyes, trying desperately to figure out if he really believed that or if he was just teasing her. It was another question she'd not yet been able to answer. "Not really, you're not. I know it. Your friends know it, too."

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure if you asked BA, he'd have somethin' to say 'bout that."

She sighed, and pushed herself up just enough to look down at him. "Come on, Murdock, I'm being serious."

He shrugged back. "So am I. Or do I need to put on my serious face?"

His brow furrowed as he frowned deeply. The look made her laugh, in spite of herself, and he broke into a smile again. But his smile and her laughter both faded as he moved his hand from her hair to stroke the side of her face.

"Kelly, it's not that I'm trying to keep secrets from you," he said quietly, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her cheekbone. "It's just that... there's some things that you're better off not knowing. For your own safety."

"You mean about your team?"

He hesitated. "Sort of. There's other things, Kelly. Things I can't talk about."

"So I'm safer not knowing things like why the man I'm in love with is institutionalized?" she challenged, hoping he realized the ridiculousness of the irony. It would seem only logical that she'd be safer knowing just how "crazy" he really was.

He caught the implication. She saw it cross his face and this time, he really did frown. "You know I wouldn't hurt you," he whispered. "Right?"

She nodded. "I'm not one of those people who thinks that 'mentally ill' is a synonym for 'violent'."

"Sometimes it can be," he corrected. He'd seen some violent mental illnesses in his time at the VA. "But I wouldn't hurt you."

"I just want to understand," she sighed, nuzzling against his hand. "I mean, doesn't it seem kind of strange that I don't even know your first name?"

He shrugged, but didn't answer.

She laughed. "Well, it is to me. It's very strange."

He smiled as he moved his hand back again and guided her towards him for a slow, gentle kiss. She returned it, then touched the side of his face as she pulled away. "Please?" she asked quietly.

He studied her for a long moment, then they both sat up. "Alright, what is it you wanna know?" he started cautiously. "If I can tell you... I'll at least try."

She didn't point out the fact that those two qualifications left an awful lot of room for avoiding the question. Instead, she just asked. "Why are you in the hospital?"

"That depends on who you ask."

She frowned. "Murdock..."

He laughed at the slight irritation in her voice. "What?" he cried. "I'm tryin' here! You asked a hard question."

"It's not that hard."

He looked out into the darkness that was settling around them. The trees looked grey in the dim light from the half moon. After a long, lingering silence, she realized he wasn't going to make another attempt to answer. "Can you at least tell me what you're diagnosed with?"

Now that she was sitting up, she was suddenly feeling the vulnerability of being naked. She reached for her shirt and sliding her arms back into the sleeves. He watched her, but didn't answer until she'd finished buttoning it and looked at him again, waiting expectantly.

"Diagnosis varies depending on which doctor you ask," he answered truthfully. "Shrink I been seein' on and off the past ten years says I got paranoid anxiety delusions and intermittent memory loss. But he don't really believe that. And I've gotten just about every other diagnosis in the DSM since I came back from 'Nam."

"What is it really?" she asked.

He raised a brow. "You're asking a crazy person what's wrong with him?" He seemed terribly amused by the thought.

"No one knows better than you what's going on inside your head," she pointed out.

He looked away. "Not a very professional way to get a diagnosis, Doc."

"I'm not asking as your doctor, Murdock." She paused for a long moment, and he looked back. "I'm asking as your girlfriend."

He smiled faintly. "Girlfriend," he repeated, reaching a hand to stroke the side of her face lightly. "I like that." They had, of course, established that relationship a long time ago. But it was the first time he'd heard her actually use the word.

She sighed deeply, her shoulders rising and falling. "Why won't you talk to me?" she pleaded.

"I _am_ talkin' to you!" he laughed.

"About things that are actually important."

"'Cause those things you think are important are actually pretty complicated."

"Well, I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I do have a degree in veterinary medicine..."

He stared her with a hurt look. "I'd never say you were an idiot, Kelly."

"Well, it's what you seem to be implying when all you say, over and over again, is that it's too complicated for me to understand."

"No, it's too complicated for me to explain. There's a difference."

"Except we both know that you're not an idiot, either."

He watched her for a long moment, considering her words and the expression on her face. It was a look almost like worry, and filled with a hurt that he didn't want to see in her eyes. "Alright, look," he tried. "I'll tell you what I'm not, okay?" He glanced at her to see if that would suffice, and she nodded. "I'm not schizophrenic. I'm not manic-depressive. I don't suffer from derealization, or narcolepsy, or dissociative identity disorder." He was counting them off on his fingers now, and she felt a smile cross her face. "I'm not obsessive-compulsive, or paranoid delusional, or affective reactive. I don't have don't have a sadistic, schizoid, or schizotypal personality disorder. And I may or may not have some memory loss depending on what day of the week you ask me."

"Then what does that leave?" she laughed.

He sighed. It was the question he knew was coming. "Look, I get…" He struggled for a way to explain. He'd never really tried being honest about this. At least, not in a very long time. "I get confused. My brain starts runnin' and it just goes a million miles a minute and there just ain't no stoppin' it when it starts and I gotta deal with all the thoughts and how fast it goes... and it gets real confusing."

She didn't need to know how much of that was probably the side effects of the medication itself. In fact, _he_ didn't need to know that. It had been his baseline normal for so long, he wasn't sure what his brain would think like if it ever got completely off the meds. It might be the same, it might be worse, it might be better. In any case, he had long ago learned how to cope and function with the confusion.

He watched her carefully, reading the concerned look on her face. "Sometimes the words don't come out how they sound in my head. Sometimes they're in the wrong order or they just don't make any sense at all. Sometimes it's not just the words; it's the whole scene or scenario that I started thinkin' and it's playin' out like a movie on a big screen right on the back of my eyes. And sometimes it gets to where I can't think at all and I kinda... lose reality. So I try to keep it from doin' that by givin' it other stuff to think about. Kinda like the way you try an' distract a bored child so he doesn't go get into mischief 'cause there's just nothin' better to do."

Hearing all of this come out of his own mouth made him very uncomfortable. He looked away as he continued. "I hear voices, but if it's just _me _and not the meds, then they're usually really just my own voice."

"What do you mean, not the meds?"

He sighed. Damn it, he hadn't meant to say that. "The drugs are…" There had to be a better way to explain this. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of one. "A lot of different doctors have tried to diagnose me with a lot of different things. Everyone wants to fix me. Even my primary doctor… I'm…" He sighed again, searching for words. "I'm on… quite a bit of medication at any given time. And some of those medications – _most _of those medications – have side effects. Auditory and visual hallucinations, blurry vision, headaches…"

"So… you take medications for illnesses you don't have?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I take whatever they give me," he nodded. "And they take my blood every week to make sure I do."

"Murdock, that's dangerous!"

He shrugged. "Well, yeah, kinda." Actually, it was probably very dangerous. But that did depend on one's definition of danger. "It can make you hear things. See things. But you learn to recognize what's real and what's not. If I'm hearin' voices, I _know _I'm hearin' voices. But most of the time, it's just my own voice holding fifteen different conversations with itself at the same damn time in my head. Only time it ever really shuts up is when there's something going on in the world outside that takes up all my concentration. Like..." Slowly, he turned back and looked at her uneasily. "Like you."

She watched him for a moment. Then she smiled, tightly. "I guess that's why I've never seen that side of you," she assumed.

"I am crazy, Kelly," he whispered. "I been crazy all my life. It just got a whole lot worse after I came back from 'Nam. An' the drugs do tend to make the party in my head real interesting. But I would never, ever hurt you. You gotta believe me when I say that."

She shook her head a little and reached out to touch the side of his face. "I know," she assured him. "I know you wouldn't."

"You _really _know that?"

She nodded. "I really know it."

He smiled as he nuzzled against her hand a little. "Good," he answered quietly. "'Cause as crazy as I am... I will never forget just how much I love you. Not even for a second."

She laughed as she rested her head on his chest again, relaxing into his arms.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

**1969**

The Special Forces division of the Army was relatively small and highly selective. That also made it rather incestuous. Everyone knew everyone. It was rare to put together a team of SF soldiers who hadn't previously toured together somewhere, somehow. If not directly acquainted, they would have mutual friends. It was never hard to find someone who knew where to find an old friend, or someone with the details on that soldier's death if they were no longer alive. With all the time he'd spent hanging in their circles, Murdock was surprised that he'd never met any of these soldiers…

"So who the hell had the bright idea to call this thing at 2:00 in the freakin' morning?"

"Element of surprise, Face."

"Yeah. Surprise! It's too fuckin' dark to see your hand in front of your face. Never mind that big ass snake under your boot."

The blonde – Face - was not a morning person. In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed to have been woken up at 0200, sitting in the TOC and awaiting orders from a commanding officer who had yet to make an appearance. If he'd even noticed Murdock standing in the corner, he certainly hadn't made any effort at eye contact.

With an irritated growl, he checked his pockets for a cigarette, then looked up. "Boston, you got a lighter?"

The lighter was tossed back and forth before Face finally plopped down in a chair against the wall, tipping back on two legs. Murdock watched him out of the corner of his eye, head down as he inspected each of them as covertly as he could manage. A muscular black man standing against one wall, the blonde-haired kid who looked no older than sixteen - though he had to be if he was here - and a tall man with dark hair.

He didn't have to know their names to know their qualifications. They were all parachute qualified, multilingual, and at the top of their class in whatever their specialties. They were also cross-trained in at least one other area – usually two. And chances were pretty good that they were some of the most rowdy soldiers outside of the Navy SEALS.

"Where's Cruiser?" the black man demanded, impatient and angry. "He supposed to be here."

"So is Hannibal." The dark-haired soldier lit a cigarette of his own, and cast a lingering glance at Murdock. "You're the pilot, I'm assuming?"

Was that disdain in his voice?

"Yes."

The blonde gave him the same lingering look. "You know where we're going?"

Murdock hesitated. "Colonel Smith hasn't told me much."

A chuckle, and exchanged glances all around. "Great."

Perhaps it wasn't hostility that he was sensing in the room. In fact, it was probably much simpler than that. He was an outsider – a come-and-go pilot. Here for one mission and gone the next, he was not like them and they knew it. He'd flown for SOG since his arrival in Vietnam, and he knew this feeling. He was different from them. Depending on just what kind of men they were – what kind of men they saw themselves as – that could shape their opinion of him in either direction.

The stereotype cast the Green Berets as undisciplined. Many of them lived up to it. A fair number of the highly publicized embarrassing incidents that the Army had to deal with came directly out of Special Forces – the most recent being the rather dramatic "TWEPing" of a double agent in the Fifth Group. While the term "CIA" was still a forbidden utterance both on and off base, the rumor had circulated quickly that they had been the ones responsible for the orders to "terminate with extreme prejudice" the double agent. But regardless of who gave the order, ultimately the responsibility fell back on the men who'd carried it out.

"Morning, everyone." Colonel Smith, coffee in one hand and a folder in the other, stepped into the small, cement-walled room.

"Morning?" Face challenged. "Did you not notice it's the middle of the night?"

Murdock found himself almost amused by the complaint. He hadn't heard a soldier whine about the time of night since basic, and certainly not to his commanding officer. He definitely hadn't expected to hear it from a Green Beret. When it came right down to it, Murdock had found the Special Forces soldiers to be ruthless, war-loving sons of bitches, by and large. Maybe a few of them escaped that stereotype but in fact, most of them considered the image appropriate. And maybe that in and of itself was what made them so damn good. They had no fear, no hesitation, and in many cases... few moral convictions.

Those same "undisciplined" men who would've walked hand in hand with Article 15 had they been stationed at a stateside base were the ones he wanted on his side in the midst of no-holds-barred jungle warfare. They were the ones who would not hesitate to kill or be killed – and the former happened more often than the latter. SOG men had a kill ratio of a hundred to one. From what little he had managed to glean in the twenty-four hours since he'd met Colonel John Smith, Murdock had learned that Smith's unit more than doubled that number. Furthermore, in their last six-month active rotation, they'd only lost twelve men – all Yards, none of them Americans.

He had never met a team like this.

"Oh, quit bitching, Lieutenant."

Good lord. The blonde was a lieutenant?

"Bitching?"

Smith didn't seem fazed by the challenge. In fact, it appeared to amuse him. With a smile, he dropped the folder on the table, set his coffee down, and grabbed a rolled map off the shelf against the back wall.

"He means knock it off!" the black man shot, with a tone that could make almost any man snap to attention. But the smile from the colonel and the mock glare from the lieutenant made it clear that this sort of exchange was all part and parcel to that camaraderie they shared. They communicated seamlessly, all the way down to matching non-verbal cues.

"Where the hell is Cruiser?" Smith demanded, glancing around. As he did, he saw Murdock. But his gaze didn't linger.

"Probably still asleep," Face grumbled.

"He didn't get in 'til ten," the dark-haired man added.

Suddenly, a wicked smile crossed the lieutenant's face. "I'll get him up." The dark mischievous tone left his intended method to one's imagination.

"I'm here, I'm here…" Another blonde - this one slightly older with bloodshot eyes, hair much longer than regulation permitted, and only half his clothes on - stumbled into the TOC. Murdock recognized him immediately.

Murdock had met Sergeant James Harrison on a brief R&R in Thailand. They'd met each other socially, on and off, where and when their paths crossed. Harrison had a particular reputation as one of the "rowdy" bunch, but he was also entertaining. He'd turned the bar of choice for the GIs in Bangkok into a tourist attraction almost overnight with his various antics, like rappelling from the overhanging gallery down to the dance floor or cutting off the power for an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.

"You're late," Smith pointed out, not looking up.

"Yeah," Harrison grinned, "but you should've seen her."

Murdock could feel the welcome before he heard it – the instant the soldier's eyes came to rest on him. "Howlin' Mad Murdock! Man, what the hell are you doin' here?"

As he edged around the table, still putting on his shirt, he almost fell on his face. Murdock couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips. "Harrison, good to see you."

"I see you two are acquainted," Colonel Smith observed.

"This man, right here," Harrison started, clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he spoke to the colonel, "is the best damn flyboy I ever fucking seen."

Suddenly, Murdock had the eyes of all three soldiers, minus Smith, locked on him. He swallowed hard, but didn't flinch as Harrison continued. "I was stationed at the A-Team camp at Dak Pek right before I got hooked up with you guys."

Murdock lowered his eyes, but kept his chin up. Of all the stories to tell them…

"We came under fire an' he was the first to respond. I hear his voice come over the radio with this god-awful howl." He paused to laugh. Murdock only smirked. "Blows the holy-living-shit out of the whole area around the summit and then he lands right in the fuckin' center of it all, drops off his guys, and hangs around while they drop down five sorties worth of nothin' but fuckin' napalm. There he is with one a those fuckin' Green Hornets, dodgin' RPG-7 rockets with a gunner hangin' out of either side 'til the fuckin' guns run dry."

Murdock's eyes flickered briefly to the amused looks of the blonde lieutenant and the dark-haired man. The enormous black guy didn't look at all amused.

"He just keeps goin' back and forth, wipes out half the fuckin' sappers flyin' right on over their heads at maybe – maybe – ten feet! I thought for sure he was gonna go down in flames." Harrison laughed. "I never seen a chopper fly like that before or since."

"I've never seen a chopper get clearance to fly like that," the dark-haired man said, eyeing him cautiously. "It's a good way to get shot down."

"He comes back every day the next three weeks we were under fire," Harrison continued. "Scatter their sorry asses all over wire. And then! The kicker! He gets two days R&R right? Well, he comes out to Dak Pek! Can you fuckin' believe that? He drops into the LZ with his arms full of cigarettes and whiskey and skin magazines."

Murdock smiled tightly, digging his hands into the pockets of his fatigues. He didn't like the attention, but at least it eased away the feeling that he was an outsider here. "Anyway, you met everyone?" Harrison asked. "This is Sergeant BA Baracus –" The man made no attempt at a friendly introduction, only scowled. "First Lieutenant Templeton Peck –" A two fingered, half-assed salute from the lieutenant, who'd already turned his attention to the map the colonel had laid out. "- and Captain Ray Brenner." The dark-haired man nodded. "And of course, Hannibal."

"Your legend precedes you, Howlin' Mad Murdock," Brenner greeted as Harrison set about the task of buttoning his shirt.

"Don't believe everything you hear," Murdock answered with a tight smile.

Brenner smirked. "Might be better for you if I did." He looked Murdock up and down. "You really as good as they say you are?"

Murdock stared back at him with no visible reaction to the challenge. "If I wasn't, would I even be here?"

Brenner chuckled. "Point taken. Though I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

**1985**

Face was walking away from the car when he heard the phone ring. With an irritated growl, he turned back. He'd had a hell of a time getting out the door this morning, and he was already running late for his morning coffee meeting. But there weren't many people who'd be calling that phone. Knowing that Hannibal couldn't possibly be asking him to actually _do _anything when he was up in the mountains of Colorado, it was probably better not to ignore the incessant ringing.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Joseph Ranger?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.

Face knelt down and glanced in the rearview mirror, using the moment of distraction to fix his slightly windblown hair. Joseph Ranger was the emergency contact listed for Murdock at the VA. "Speaking," Face said confidently, trying not to sound too distracted.

"Mr. Ranger, I'm calling in regards to HM Murdock."

Clearly, the man wasn't finished speaking. Face didn't wait for the explanation. "No, wait. Don't tell me. He's missing again. You know, you guys really should look into beefing up security."

The moment of stunned silence on the other end of the phone told him the man wasn't entirely sure what to say. "Mr. Ranger, I am not with the VA hospital," he clarified after a moment's pause. "I'm with the FBI."

Face's hand came to a stop in his hair as he heard that, and he suddenly lost interest in the mirror. "The FBI?" he asked, genuinely surprised. He stood again. "What do you want with Murdock?"

"We need to speak with him regarding a very important matter," the man continued flatly. "Do you know where we might find him?"

"You're asking me? Last time I saw him, he was in a psych ward with a door that locked from the outside."

"According to the nurses here, he went missing sometime during the night on Thursday. He didn't make it to breakfast yesterday morning."

Actually, Face could have told the man exactly what Murdock had eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. "Well, I don't know what to tell you," he answered casually. "I've given up worrying about him. He usually comes back on his own, you know."

"We need to speak with him right away."

Face checked his watch. Damn it, he was late. "Well, he's not with me. You have a number where I can call you if I see him?"

He took the number down on a small pad of paper from the glove box, then hung up the phone. He hesitated a moment with his hand still resting on it. The van would've gotten a call before he did if anyone was near it to take a call. The Corvette was a secondary contact. The primary went to the van. That meant the van wasn't taking calls. Still, he had to try.

No response. With a deep sigh, he hung up the phone. If they were out of range, that meant he could either drive out to Colorado or wait for them to come back in range if he wanted to talk to them. He'd decide on that later. Right now, he was late.

*X*X*X*

"If I were you, I'd look more into swing trading and longer term investments."

Face studied the cup full of burnt coffee, well aware that his mind was wandering as his financial advisor carried on the very interesting but very one-sided conversation. The man had already had a few too many cups of coffee this morning.

"Over the past few months, I haven't held a position in more than two stocks at one time so I can keep a closer eye on them…"

Face wanted to be paying attention to this conversation. He knew he was going to regret it later if he didn't. The man was almost always right when it came to financial advice, and Face had learned long ago to trust it. Unfortunately, right now, he wasn't hearing much. His thoughts were elsewhere. What the hell did the FBI want with Murdock?

Finishing the last few gulps of lukewarm coffee, Face hurried through his good-byes and promised to call, then headed back to his car. There, he immediately reached for the phone.

"I'm sorry, the mobile number you are trying to reach is not accepting calls right now."

He sighed as he hung up again. They had to be out of range, up in the mountains. If Hannibal didn't realize it now, he'd figure it out when he didn't receive the obligatory check-in call at 6:00 this evening. Face could deal with that later. At the moment, he was far more interested in answering the questions that were nagging at his mind.

The hospital was only a few miles away, and he drove there at a leisurely pace, enjoying the morning sunshine through the open top of the Corvette. There was no finer way to spend an early-summer morning, he thought. As he finally pulled to a stop in the parking lot, he reached into the back and pulled a locked briefcase into his lap. Inside, he found the identification he was looking for – fake, but convincing at a glance – and set the case aside again.

He was surprised to find, as he stepped off the elevator, that the FBI agents were still there in business suits and with badges displayed. It made him pause for a second, and rethink his confidence. He'd only figured he would have to charm a few nurses – something he was quite accustomed to doing – and hadn't really even bothered to come up with a plan as to what he was going to say. He thought well enough off the top of his head that he hadn't figured it necessary. It was enough to know that the weekend shift nurses wouldn't recognize the "doctor" who'd come two nights before to transfer Mr. Murdock to another facility for some neurological testing.

"Can I help you?" The nurse at the station had already seen him before he had a chance to think through the marginally more complicated story that he would have to employ now. He smiled, faking the confidence until it was genuine. No one would ever know the difference.

"I'm looking for an HM Murdock." He definitely had the attention of the suits as he flashed the police badge. "Detective Jeff Aniston, L.A.P.D."

Before she had a chance to answer, one of the men was already approaching. He held out a hand in greeting. "Agent Colburn, FBI."

Face raised a brow questioningly as he shook his hand. "FBI? Don't tell me you guys are involved in this…"

"Might I ask what your business is with Mr. Murdock?" Colburn asked, not reacting in the slightest to the feigned surprise.

"We have reason to believe that he was involved in a shooting on Wednesday night," Face said flatly. "Two people were killed and his fingerprints were found at the scene." By the time they figured out that the story was complete bullshit, Face would be long gone with his answers.

"Wednesday night?" the nurse at the station cried. "Why, that's impossible! Mr. Murdock was right here on Wednesday night!"

"Well, he's supposedly been here for the past ten years, ma'am," Face reminded. "So perhaps you can explain to me how his fingerprints turned up at my crime scene."

She had no answer for that. Her dilemma was probably amplified by the fact that Murdock was not at the hospital now, either. Caught without a comeback, she scowled as she turned away. Face directed his attention back to the FBI agent. "What are you guys here for?" he asked. "I didn't think anybody would've had reason to call in the feds."

"We're looking for someone in an unrelated matter," Colburn offered. "And we believe Mr. Murdock could have some information that would help us clear up some questions."

That was about as vague as it could possibly be. Face frowned. "Looking for somebody?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter, Detective."

Of course he wasn't. Face had seen that coming a mile away. "Well, if I find him before you do, he'll be answering _my _questions before yours."

Colburn smiled politely. "And if we find him, we'll be sure to send him your way when we're through."

Face left the hospital undeterred, but knowing he needed a different approach. That was okay with him. He appreciated the challenge every once in a while. He'd just turned over the ignition when the passenger side door opened. Almost before he had a chance to turn his head, there was an enormous man – the kind who could give BA a run for his money – sitting in the passenger seat. There was no time for questions. The man raised a pistol, and it clicked as he pulled back the hammer.

"You're Templeton Peck?"

Face laughed nervously, hands raised in a defenseless posture. What was the safest answer to that? "Who's asking?"

"I want to hire the A-Team," he stated gruffly. "And I don't have a lot of time. So you'll forgive me if I don't go through the proper channels. But you're going to take me to Hannibal Smith. Right now."

Face paused to consider that for a long moment. What were his chances of getting out of the car without getting shot? Add to the equation the fact that he'd have to abandon his Corvette with the keys inside, and he tossed the idea out without much consideration. Besides, of all the places that a lone man with a gun could want him to drive, there were far less appealing places than to the rest of his team. "You'll never get away with this" was not only a tacky line, it was a given. Who did this guy think he was? Nevertheless, Face had a choice between altering his plans for the weekend... or being shot. It didn't seem like much of a choice.

"Alright," he agreed. "But I hope you brought a change of clothes. It's going to be a long ride."

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against his skull, tilting his head a little as the man growled. "Just _drive_!"

Without another word, Face put the car in reverse and pulled away from the VA hospital.


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**1969**

"You know, from the death grip you've got on those controls, I'd almost think you were a little nervous."

Murdock didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the younger man at all for a few seconds. "You're not supposed to be up here, you know," he reminded him. Actually, in the seat Peck was occupying, there was supposed to be a co-pilot. Murdock had never flown a UH-1 without a co-pilot. Or a maintenance engineer. Or a gunner. This was a new experience indeed. "But if you insist on being here, I'm still going to have to ask that you leave the drivin' to me. And don't touch anything."

Peck gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the rest of the team, in the dark cargo area in the back of the Huey, huddled around a flashlight. Murdock was trying his damnedest to ignore him – to ignore all of them. He might have expected the colonel to be up here, but not this young lieutenant. And in any case, he didn't feel much like talking.

"You've done a lot of combat drops, Murdock," Peck started. "And a few rescues, too. What makes this different?"

"Not real sure what you mean by that." His tone was flat and emotionless.

Peck stared at him for a moment. Murdock could feel his gaze and after a long, uneasy silence, he turned to look back. Peck's half-unbuttoned shirt was drenched in sweat, and the greasepaint on his face was smeared into the rag tied around his neck.

"Hannibal told me you hijacked a Skyraider to answer the call for help from A Shau," Peck continued.

"Hannibal?" Murdock raised a brow as he stole a quick glance at the younger man. He could guess to whom Peck was referring, but he wondered at the nickname. Not that he had one; every man in SOG did. But it was an unusual title, and blatant in its significance.

Peck smirked back at him. "I guess BA was right. You don't even know who you're working for, do you? I thought you had experience with Special Ops."

"I do."

He offered nothing more, and Peck didn't press. Likely, he knew he wouldn't get anywhere. Murdock turned his eyes back to the moon and the shadows it cast over the trees below him. Murdock had had plenty of experience with Special Ops, but his attention on his flying and out of their briefing. The Green Hornets – the casual name for the 20th SOS, which he served in – were known primarily for their work with Special Ops. Murdock knew more than a few SOG soldiers. It added to his surprise that he'd never crossed paths with Peck before.

"Hey, listen, when this is over, let me buy you a drink," Peck offered, catching him slightly off guard.

Murdock didn't have a chance to answer before the familiar voice of Colonel Smith yelled from the back, "Face! Get your ass back here. You need to be a part of this."

Peck clapped a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he jumped up and between the seats, narrowly avoiding the control stick. The instant of panic sent a hot flash through Murdock, but he quickly recovered as Peck jumped into the cargo area.

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock watched him leave, then turned his attention back to the instruments on the dash in front of him. He could hear them talking and laughing, as comfortable as old friends going out for coffee. It was hard to believe those soldiers were about to jump out of a helicopter over enemy territory.

Murdock's eyes faded out of focus for a moment as he listened to Harrison, laughing hysterically over some joke that he'd not heard from the cockpit. That sound was so foreign to him, so out of place. How could anyone laugh here, now, in this hell? And why would anyone want to? As his gaze swept the emptiness of the trees below, he wondered how many bodies were down there, unrecovered and rotting in the sweltering heat. How many fathers, sons, and brothers. The thought left him with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The Green Berets could laugh.

Murdock would never laugh again.

**1985**

The laughter was loud enough to attract Hannibal's attention from fifteen feet above, where he was leaning on the rail of the large deck. He watched with a quiet smile as the two grown adults in the yard below chased each other like children. With a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he was happy just to bask in the warm sun and survey the area.

"Man, I don't get it."

Hannibal smiled. "What's the matter, BA?" he asked. "You're beginning to sound jealous."

"Man, I ain't jealous of that fool!" He was indignant at the suggestion.

"He's happy, she's happy." Hannibal gestured at the two of them, then brought his hand up to set the cigar between his teeth. "I'm glad she came along."

"Yeah, 'cept somehow I know this is gonna turn into a bad thing. I give it three weeks and he'll be cryin' all over the place 'cause she found out how crazy he was."

"Nah, it'll last longer than that," Hannibal mused. "It's already been two months."

"Yeah, but he ain't gonna be able to hide it he spends so much time 'round her."

"He's hiding it pretty well so far."

"No he ain't," BA stated firmly. "Thatain't normal." He pointed down to where the two of them were rolling, head over heels down the slight hill, laughing loudly until they came to a stop.

Hannibal looked away with a smile, giving them their privacy when the rolling ended in an embrace. Not that they seemed to be particularly askingfor privacy. They knew they were being watched, and they were keeping it clean. Puppy love, all of it. "She doesn't seem to mind," he pointed out.

A quiet sound of disgust was the only answer he got. He turned his back to the railing, leaning back on it, and exchanged the cigar for a quick shot of the whiskey. "It could be a really good thing, BA," he offered. "You never know."

Another brief grunt, but there was no logical protest to that statement. By all indications, it _did _seem to be a good thing.

"Hey, Hannibal?"

He glanced down from the deck, over his shoulder. Murdock stood on the grass below, shielding his eyes from the sun. Kelly was a few steps behind him, wearing his hat. "We're goin' for a walk down by the lake."

Hannibal reached into his pocket for one of the walkie-talkies. "Here, take this," he ordered, dropping it down. Murdock caught it easily. "Keep it on, just in case."

"Walk down by the lake" was Murdock's way of saying "don't come looking for me" if last night was any indication. Their "walk" had lasted until just before dawn, and Hannibal had drifted in and out of awareness all night waiting for the sound of the door opening. It wasn't that he didn't trust Murdock, or that he felt particularly threatened out here in the middle of nowhere. And it wasn't that he felt the need to know where Murdock was at every moment; he was a grown man, after all. But danger seemed to follow them around, and there was no reason to give it an opportunity to catch them off guard. Even Face knew to check in every night.

*X*X*X*

Face wanted to try calling the van again. But with the speed they were travelling down the long, straight stretch, he would have to slow down. Besides, he'd just tried a few hours ago. The van was out of range out there. He already knew that; he wasn't sure why he felt the need to try again. He'd made the call just fine last night, but they hadn't gotten all the way to the cabin when he'd talked to them.

He glanced at his passenger, evaluating him carefully. The man seemed to alternate between incredibly jumpy and incredibly over-confident. They'd stopped twice. Either time, Face could have easily gotten away. For that matter, he probably could've gotten away with the car and left this jackass stranded. He chose not to. He was morbidly curious as to what on earth the guy wanted. The fact that Face was dying to ask Murdock why the FBI was looking for him had a part to play in his decision to drive out to Colorado as well.

"How much further?" the man demanded with a glare, still cradling the gun in his lap.

"You might as well get comfortable," Face replied. "We've still got a long way to go."

The man's attention had turned to the flat desert outside. "We should've taken a plane. Why the hell are we driving?"

An interesting thought. "Ah, but if we'd taken a plane, you wouldn't be able to hold me at gunpoint." Face smiled and gave a little shrug as the man turned and glared at him menacingly.

"You're a real smartass, you know that?"

Silence settled over them again. It was getting downright hot, even with the top off of the 'vette, and out of the corner of his eye, Face saw the man shift and writhe his way out of his jacket. Face's gaze immediately fell to the tattoo on his left forearm, and lingered there.

The silence stretched.

"So," Face finally started, eyes on the road in front of him. "How many tours?"

"What?" the man asked gruffly.

Face glanced at him briefly, and pointed out the rough, green tattoo on his forearm. If he had to guess, Face would've said that the tattoo had been done with a needle and ink from a ballpoint pen: a prison tattoo. "Fuck the NVA?" he read aloud. He gave a slight smirk in answer to the man's scowl. "You can't get much more obvious than that."

"Yeah?" The man was immediately defensive. "What's it to you?"

"You also have a POW flag on the back of your neck," Face pointed out. That one had been done professionally. "Just curious."

The man's eyes narrowed into slits. But finally, unexpectedly, he answered. "Just one tour."

Face was ready with the question to keep the conversation going. "Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?"

He was defensive. A little too defensive. Something wasn't right about that. It wasn't uncommon to meet Viet vets with a grudge. But he seemed a little too guarded, as if he was hiding something. And he had to know that he was in like company. There was no way in hell he'd sought them out without knowing who they were and where they'd come from. Especially if he'd served in 'Nam himself.

"Like I said, just curious," Face relented, backing down with one hand raised to show he wasn't trying to fight.

The man turned to glare out the window again. Face stole a few glances at him between watching the road. "You know who we are," he pointed out after a few moments of silence. "What we are. Otherwise you wouldn't have gone through all this trouble to find us."

"It wasn't much trouble."

Avoiding the question. Was he hiding something? Face could understand not wanting to talk about the war. It wasn't exactly his favorite topic, either. But unlike Face, this man had gotten his service permanently seared into his flesh in a very visible spot. He wanted people to know he'd served, or at least he didn't care if they did know. Besides, even if the war held less-than-pleasant memories for the man, it was still a common ground he had with Face. It should've made their conversation less tense, not more so. Even on guard against painful memories, there was a certain understanding that existed between veterans: they'd all been through it. They'd been through it together. And when you couldn't tell who might be enemy, you at least knew that an American soldier was an ally. At the moment, Face was being regarded more like the enemy. And he wanted to know why.

"You still in?" he tried.

"No."

"Well, I guess we have something in common after all."

The man was quiet for a moment, glaring out the window. When he finally spoke again, the words caught Face slightly off guard. "We got more in common than you think."

Face processed that slowly, hazarding a few quick glances in the man's direction. Noting the attention, the man sighed loudly. In one quick motion, he jerked the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, revealing the familiar blue insignia with the gold sword and lightning bolts. Face's eyes widened just slightly.

"Special Forces," he thought out loud. He looked again at the writing beneath it. "A-503? That's the Nha Trang Mike Force."

This time, it was the other man's turn to be shocked. "Very good, Lieutenant," he managed. "I'm surprised you know that."

His surprise was justified. Sixty some A-camps and countless additional numbered units from the Fifth, and he knew it spot on. "I'm surprised to see it tattooed on your arm."

Face wasn't sure why that simple statement was perceived as a threat, but it was. The man growled under his breath, and glared out the windshield, tightening his hand around the grip of the gun sitting in his lap.

"Just shut up and drive."

With a heavy sigh, Face set his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him, and drove on in silence. The man wanted something. Sooner or later, Face would find out what it was… if the long drive didn't make him crazy first.


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**1985**

Hannibal didn't realize that the phone was out of service until he began to wonder why they hadn't received the 6:00 call he'd been expecting.

"We must be just outta range," BA said. "It worked last night an' we were only a few miles down the road when he called."

"More like twenty," Hannibal corrected, hanging up the useless phone. "And the last gas station we passed was a lot further than that."

"It's a long drive just to make a phone call," BA observed. "He ain't gonna answer anyway. It's Saturday night."

"Oh, I'll get a hold of him," Hannibal stated confidently. If he wasn't near the 'vette, Hannibal had the number to the hotel where he was staying. And if he wasn't there, he'd at least have left a time and date of check in with the front desk. This pattern had been well established years ago.

BA shook his head slightly. "Just be careful you don't make us run outta gas, man," he warned as Hannibal reached into his pocket for the keys. "Remember, we gotta be able to get to a gas station when we leave here tomorrow night. And it's a long way to that gas station."

Hannibal shoved the key into the ignition, but didn't even have a chance to turn the engine over before a flash of white down the long, winding driveway caught his eye. He paused, and BA turned to look as Hannibal stood, hanging out the side of the van. They both watched as the white Corvette inched its way slowly over the rough, gravel driveway toward the house. Surprised, but no less amused, Hannibal smiled as it pulled to a stop before the last big potholes, and Face stepped out of the driver's seat.

"I thought you weren't coming, Lieutenant."

Face glared at him briefly as he hopped over the mud puddle in the middle of the walkway. "Not my bright idea."

That would mean that it had to be the bright idea of the man sitting in the passenger seat. BA had seen him too, just an outline at this distance. The unfamiliar presence made him frown. Who was that? It definitely wasn't anyone they knew.

"I tried calling you," Face started, kicking the mud off of his shoes every other step. As he came close, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at the colonel. "You were out of range."

"Yeah, I was just about to go find a pay phone." Hannibal took his eyes off the figure in the car and looked down at Face. "Who's your friend?"

"I'm not so sure he's a friend." Very slowly, the man stepped out of the side of the car. BA instantly stood a little straighter. The guy was probably 250 pounds of pure muscle. Face glanced back, over his shoulder, rocking on his heels as he looked back toward Hannibal. "He wants to talk to you. And just so you know, he's got a Colt .45."

Hannibal nodded, and dropped down to the ground. "Doesn't sound too friendly to me."

He kept the door open, ready to reach for the M-16 next to the driver's seat if the need should arise. As the dim light from the setting sun caught the glint from the weapon in his hand, Hannibal felt the need had arisen. He grabbed the gun and calmly set it in the open window, barrel pointed toward the man. But the intruder didn't raise his weapon. In fact, he reached behind him and tucked it into his belt.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "State your business, friend."

"You Colonel John Smith?"

"That's me. Who are you?"

As he stepped out of the shadows and into the dim evening light, Hannibal felt something change. It was almost a physical sensation. "Alan?" BA exclaimed, as if on cue. "Alan Parker, that _you_?" BA's guard had lowered. Hannibal could feel it from where he stood

"BA Baracus," the newcomer returned with a smile. "I was hoping I'd get to see you."

Hannibal and Face exchanged glances, and Face shrugged. "Guess he has a name now," he sighed. "Ten hours of driving and I couldn't get him to give one to me."

Hannibal lowered the gun out of the window as BA and Alan slapped each other's shoulders in a friendly greeting. "It only took you ten hours to get here from LA?" he asked, amused.

Face opened his mouth to answer, but opted for just a shrug. "I did find out he's from the Nha Trang Mike Force," he offered. "503. He's got it tattooed on his arm. And I suspect he was a POW, but I'm not sure."

"What makes you say that?"

Face shrugged. "Gut feeling. Where's Murdock?" He glanced around the yard and at the cabin, where all the lights were still off.

Hannibal watched the two men exchange greetings and laughter, answering Face's question without giving it much thought. "Oh, he's… around." His attention was far more focused on the man who'd just arrived, and the ramifications of his arrival.

**1969**

Murdock watched silently as the team of five men rappelled out of the chopper at twenty feet, no further than five hundred yards from A Shau. Five hundred yards and a Huey didn't make for a clandestine drop, if that had been Smith's intent. Apparently, it was worth the risk of dropping too close to the camp if it meant they wouldn't have to go through the jungle at night. And apparently, they wanted to do this fast. It made Murdock's skin crawl to be hovering this close to a camp with all those RPG launchers.

The colonel had assured him that they would only need fifteen minutes. Murdock wasn't sure what Smith expected to accomplish in fifteen minutes, but he didn't argue. It was Smith's operation, not his. He was just along for the ride. Murdock pulled back, away from the camp, and circled wide. Now he had to kill time. Fifteen minutes wasn't long enough to return to the base. He would have to stay close enough to be within range of the portable radio the team carried, but far enough up in the air that he wouldn't get shot out of the sky. They had rocket launchers in that camp, and plenty of ammunition.

It seemed distinctly wrong that there was no chatter over the radio. He was not communicating with Covey overhead, or the target camp, since it was overrun, or even the base that had sent him. Smith had explained to him that the mission they were supposedly carrying out was very different from what they were actually doing. They were off the radar and out of contact with anyone who'd know where to look for them if they went down. It was a very new and almost terrifying experience.

For the first time in a long time, stranded in the sky with no one to talk to and no one to watch his back, he felt truly alone. The only people who even knew he was out here in the pitch blackness of the hot, sticky night were those of the team he'd just dropped. They would be the only ones he'd hear over the radio… when and if they called for pickup.

His mind wandered as he hovered, watching for the muzzle flares and tracer rounds of enemy fire. So far, there were none. Seven minutes, and not a flash. The enemy had to know they were there; the Huey wasn't exactly quiet and they'd practically knocked on the door of the camp. The enemy should've been ready and waiting. He frowned deeply as he considered that. What kind of an insane strategy would incorporate that kind of risk? This was by far the strangest operation he'd ever pulled. Fifteen minutes? Smith had to be out of his goddamn mind.

The first muzzle flashes made the muscles in his shoulders tense up a little. Something always happened in his brain when he saw that. Something cold and unfeeling took over, mentally preparing him for the bloody horror of what he was about to witness. He'd seen enough blood in the back of his chopper to last him a lifetime. It never got easier. As his mind drifted back, he couldn't help but hear the haunting voices, echoing in his head even over the rattling of the chopper's blades. Nineteen-year-old kids who knew they were dying. Some of them called to their God as they bled out in pain and hopeless agony. Most of them called for their mothers.

Two minutes.

So strange to be in this chopper alone. Eerie, even. There should be a co-pilot. There should be a maintenance engineer – the "owner" of the Huey who did all its repairs and flew in it every time it left the ground. There should be a gunner – preferably two, one on each side. Instead, there was only him, alone in the ink-black sky over the jungle trees. There was nothing to hear except the chopper blades, nothing to see except the glowing red instruments on the dash and the red and green tracers shooting at each other in the camp a few hundred yards away. For every green streak, there were fifty red. It made Murdock anxious, in spite of himself. His team was vastly outnumbered down there.

He could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking his collar. A few more deep, slow breaths of heavy, saturated air. Fifteen-minute mark had come and gone. What were the chances of this plan succeeding? He didn't really know enough about it to even guess. He only knew the part he had to play – drop off and pick up, and keep his mouth shut about it all. Hopefully, there would be more to pick up than he'd dropped off and not less. He knew they were going in there after POWs.

His thoughts trailed off, and he felt his mind fade out of focus. Fifteen MIA. Two Americans. One of them from the Mike Force. His chest tightened as he shut his eyes.

"RT Cannon to Howlin' Mad."

The interruption startled him, and he brushed his eyes roughly as he realized that they were leaking. He cleared his throat before he answered. "Howlin' Mad, ready in the wings. SITREP?"

The unit on the ground – the voice sounded like Harrison's, but he couldn't be sure – ignored his request for a situation report. "How about some fireworks to liven up the party?"

Fireworks? Without a gunner? What the hell was he supposed to do - shoot out of the cockpit while flying? "What kind of fireworks did you have in mind, Cannon?" he asked, stunned.

"The kind that'll give us some relief from that north wall."

Murdock's jaw dropped. They knew he was the only one up here. What was he supposed to do without a gunner? He glanced to the side and in the dim light from the dash instruments he saw that at some point, someone – had to be Peck – had laid out several grenades well within his grasp. Murdock's eyes grew wider. Was he kidding?

"Are you kidding?"

"Anytime you're ready, Howlin' Mad! Over!"

He wasn't kidding.

If Murdock did what they were asking him to do, it would violate every rule in the book. Not only was he without a co-pilot, he'd be flying one-handed while dropping grenades with the other and taking his eyes off of the instruments to make sure he didn't blow up the wrong thing. In the dark! How would he even pull the pins? Was this really what they were asking him to do? Could he even physically do that? Who the hell were these guys?

The really funny thing about it was that they were not only asking him to do it, they were expecting him to comply. Murdock felt his deep, concerned frown quirk up into a slight smile. Talk about a challenge. He took a deep breath, and his voice was even and confident when he answered again. "10-4, A-Team. Be there in a minute. Over."

**1985**

"Murdock? Murdock, you there?"

Eyes still closed, leaning back against the rough bark of a fallen tree at the edge of the lake, he reached with his free hand into his pocket to retrieve the walkie-talkie. "Yeah, Colonel?"

"Face is here."

Murdock's eyes opened at that, and he glanced briefly at the woman napping beside him, her head on his shoulder. "Face is here? Really?" He frowned. "You ain't just pullin' my leg, are you?"

But a moment later, it was Face's voice that answered him. "Yes, Murdock, it's me. Come on up here, will ya?"

Murdock smiled, and shifted. Kelly sat up, blinking at the world around her. "Uh, that's a big 10-4, Faceman. Be there in a minute. Over."

"I thought you said he wasn't coming," Kelly recalled, confused. She was rubbing her eyes with one hand, stretching the other up over her head.

"Well, apparently he changed his mind." He rose to his feet, offering a hand down to her. She placed her fingers in his with a smile and he pulled her up easily. But before they turned to start walking, he snaked his arms around her waist. "You have a nice nap?"

"Very nice," she smiled back.

"Does that mean I get to keep you up all night, now?" he grinned, tipping his head down to kiss just below her ear.

She giggled quietly as she pulled away. "Come on," she prodded.

He didn't argue, just caught hold of the back pocket of her jeans as she retreated, and left his hand there as he followed her up the narrow trail. Once they were out into the yard, past the trees, he moved beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Wonder why he came out here," he thought out loud. His mind was already swimming with possibilities.

"Maybe he just got bored?"

More likely something was wrong. But he hadn't sounded upset, and neither had Hannibal. Maybe it was just a minor problem, easily fixed. As they approached the cabin, the first person he saw was Hannibal, waiting out on the porch. He slowed. Maybe something _was _wrong. He was out here to head him off before he walked right into it. Keeping his concerns to himself, Murdock's tone was light and carefree. "Everything okay, Colonel?"

"More or less," came the response. There was a strange sort of reservation in his tone. He sounded almost… unsure.

Murdock didn't buy the assurance that everything was "more or less" fine. Suddenly, he felt even more uneasy. He paused halfway up the steps and lowered his hand to the small of Kelly's back. "Why don't you go on inside," he said gently, smiling as he guided her up ahead of him.

"Okay." She smiled politely at Hannibal as she passed and disappeared through the screen door. It clacked closed behind her and Murdock crossed his arms over his chest, the smile fading into a look of concern. "What's wrong?"

"There's someone here to see you."

Murdock raised a brow. "To see _me_? Who? Why?"

"Actually, he says he's here to see me," Hannibal reconsidered. "But I told him we wouldn't talk to him until you got here."

Murdock shook his head confused. "Okay…?" He wasn't sure what else to say.

If Hannibal had intended to say anything more – and it looked like he did – he thought better of it before the words actually formed. After a brief pause, he turned and led the way into the cabin. Murdock followed a step behind, mentally preparing himself for anything.

_Almost _anything.

His eyes came to rest on the man – the one character out of place in this scene – almost immediately. His mind registered what he was seeing a half-second later. "Alan?" He couldn't have stopped the exclamation if he'd tried, but he immediately cursed himself for it as the man turned and locked eyes with him.

"Hello, Mark."

"Mark?" BA exclaimed, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

Murdock didn't look at BA. He couldn't look away from the rough, scarred features of the giant man standing near the fireplace, staring back at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal lean against the back of the sofa, watching him carefully. On his other side, Face was looking back and forth between the two men who were staring at each other.

After a tense moment of silence, Face finally broke it with a quiet chuckle. "Oh, this is going to be good."


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

**1985**

"You look good, Mark."

"Don't call me that!" An instinctive reaction, something he'd neither been expecting nor knew how to control, had caused Murdock to cover his ears and close his eyes. Head down and blocking out the world, his thoughts raced as he struggled to cope with an overload of information. It was a sensation that bordered on pain.

"Don't call me that," he said again, then forced himself to look up as he plowed through his next words. "What are you doing here? Why are you here? How did you get here?"

Alan laughed briefly. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you weren't happy to see me!"

"What do you want!"

Murdock was not laughing. He did not find this the least bit funny. He closed his eyes, but resisted the urge to cover his ears again. _Hear no evil… see no evil… speak no evil…_ Evil tricks his mind was playing on him. He was seeing things, hearing things. This wasn't real. God damn those drugs the doctors put in his head and the ghosts they conjured up. God damn the confusion between reality and a bad dream. He was hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating and the most confusing thing that he was going to have to work through was what had triggered it. Because he couldn't possibly be seeing what he was seeing.

The man standing before him had been dead for eighteen years…

Murdock breathed as deeply as he could. "You need to go away," he declared, eyes still shut tight. When he opened them, the ghost would be gone. "You need to go away because you're not really real."

"Fool, what're you talkin' about?"

"Why don't you have a seat, Murdock?"

"Murdock, are you okay?"

Voices. Voices swirling in his head where he couldn't separate them out.

"You're not there," he repeated, over and over again. "You're dead. You're not real."

"Man, you crazy."

But when he opened his eyes again, the man was still there. Still staring at him, but now with a confused look on his face. Still real, or at least appearing to be real. Did they see him? Did they see what he saw? Did they _know _what he saw? His gaze flickered briefly to Hannibal. He would know what he was seeing. But his expression reflected only concern for the display that Murdock was unable to control.

"What do you want?" Murdock asked, looking back at the man.

Hannibal must have seen how close he was to hyperventilating. "Murdock, sit down." This time, it was an order.

"What do you want?" he asked again. A hand on his arm made him flinch, but he didn't strike out. He just let it guide him to a nearby chair. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"How about we start with the basics," Face cut in. He looked at Alan. "For the benefit of the rest of us, whoare you?"

Face could see him too. Face could see Murdock's hallucinations. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe this was all a dream. Where had he fallen asleep? He shut his eyes hard again and concentrated on waking up. _Wake up, wake up, wake up… You're asleep in your own bed! Wake up!_

He didn't wake up.

**1969**

Time stood still, and sped up, until Murdock's perception was so confused, he wasn't aware of anything except the flare of rockets aimed in his direction and the fuckers on the ground that he was blasting the hell out of. He'd never tried dropping grenades out the side of a chopper while flying. It was a neat trick!

He'd heard that the SOG Green Berets wrapped their grenade pins in tape so that they could pull them with their teeth if they were wounded in one arm. He now found that to be true. Using one hand to control the chopper, he used his teeth and his other hand to drop grenades right into the center of the huddled groups of NVA in the camp. Keeping the chopper steady was almost impossible.

As much fun as it was, he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted to attempt such a feat with anyone else in the aircraft; he almost lost control twice, to say nothing of the RPG fire coming up at him. In any case, he didn't imagine he'd ever get to do anything like this again. It went against so many regulations, he wouldn't even be able to tell anyone about it without running the risk of losing his wings.

The fires he'd started made the confusion on the ground a little bit more visible. Apparently, they'd never seen grenades dropped from a helicopter either. The A-Team was silent, at least on the radio. The cackle of AK-47s from below suggested that they were still engaged. The commie bastards were shooting up at him, too. The familiar _ping!_ of bullets through the metal would've concerned him more if he'd had people in the back. But as it was, unless they hit him or one of the necessary components to keeping the chopper in the air, he could care less how many bullets they wasted on this bird. It wasn't his problem.

The rockets were his problem.

"A-Team to Howlin' Mad." He was ready for the voice this time. With a smile on his face at the pure chaos that had erupted below him, he took the radio. A flash directly in front of him forced him to bank right so fast he nearly lost control again. These choppers weren't made for maneuvers like this.

"Howlin' Mad on the radio. State your claim, A-Team."

"Water's nice and hot." His mood, already elevated by the fun he was having, rose even more. Hot water was better than cold – it meant they had found living prisoners. It was also better than warm, which would've meant that the prisoners were alive but too injured to aid in their own escape.

"How many you got, A-Team?" It suddenly occurred to him that he was going to have to lift off and fly in this mess while loaded. Maybe even overloaded.

"Ten standing, two wounded."

That was pushing it - especially with the rockets coming up at him. It was going to be tricky.

"Roger that. Let's see some of them pretty red flares on the LZ. Then get ready to run 'cause I'll be comin' in fast."

Seconds later, a flash of red went up into the sky. It illuminated the open area on the southwest side of the camp for just long enough to imprint the image in Murdock's mind. Armed with that knowledge, he positioned the chopper, and began a descent that would've been called "recklessly fast" under any circumstances. It startled the radio operator below.

"LZ is red, Howlin' Mad! Repeat, LZ is red!"

If Murdock hadn't figured out already that the landing zone was under fire, there wasn't much he could do about it now. "No shit?" He grinned as he pulled up just short of the point of no return. Another two seconds at his current rate of decent and he'd be landing in a spectacular crash. "Red's always been my favorite color."

The noise of the rotor was deafening. He let it cloud his thoughts, and focused entirely on the gauges in front of him. M-16 fire echoed from the cargo area, and a few more sharp pings made Murdock's grip flex and tighten on the control arm. Pure adrenaline was racing through his veins as he counted seconds. It was the longest forty-three seconds of his life before he heard the yell. "Go! Go!"

Murdock pulled the chopper up hard, accounting for the difference in the way it handled now that it was loaded. The loud, adrenaline-soaked victory cries from behind him sounded like music to his ears as he exchanged altitude for speed and headed off toward Hue.

"That was fuckin' amazing, man! Who the hell are you guys?"

The chatter of Vietnamese and half-coherent English was too much for him to decipher all at once.

"God, look at you! You're fuckin' bleedin' all over!"

Murdock winced as he caught that statement and switched to the intercom. "Aw, come on, guys, don't you be bleedin' in my chopper…"

It was a second later that Harrison appeared beside him, grabbed his head in both hands and planted a huge, exaggerated kiss on his cheek. "I love you, man!"

Murdock couldn't help but smile as he pulled away. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Tryin' to fly here." Harrison could not possibly know how difficult it was to keep this bird in the air with this many people in it. It would've been difficult even in broad daylight, and it was even harder in the dark.

There were no words for the thoughts in Murdock's head – a thousand voices all at once. Elated by the success and confused as to how it had happened, he let the thoughts war in his head. Beneath it all, the slowly building awareness that thirteen men in this chopper meant they'd picked up seven on the ground. "Hey, Colonel?" he called back, eyes still on the controls that were his only guide in the deep darkness all around him.

A moment later, Smith appeared beside him. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Murdock did a double take at the sheer amount of blood covering the older man. Some of it was transfer – a man he'd carried, perhaps. He'd said they had two wounded. But some of it was spatter. He'd killed at least a couple of those bastards up close and personal.

Good.

"You said seven," he pointed out. "What about the others?"

"At least three were killed," Smith informed him, with the same neutrality as if he was reporting the weather. "The others weren't there."

"Where's Parker?"

Smith paused for a long moment, and Murdock dared to take his eyes away from the controls for long enough to exchange a quick glance with him. "Alan Parker," he repeated. "He's the reason we were going in there, right?"

Clearly, Smith was surprised that he'd known anything about the significance of this rescue. Murdock hoped he would just answer the question and not ask how he did know.

"Alan Parker is dead," Smith finally replied.

Murdock's heart sank, the smile melting from his face. Hearing those words felt like a physical blow to the chest. His breath caught, and he gripped the controls tighter, forcing his breathing to remain slow and even and his mind to remain on the task at hand. No matter what he was thinking, no matter what he was feeling, he had to keep this bird in the air.

But even with his eyes firmly fixed on the flight instruments, the words kept echoing in his mind. Alan Parker was dead. He'd died in Vietnam, in the attack on A Shau. Alan Parker was dead and he would never be going home.

Murdock's only brother was dead.

**1985**

"My name is Alan Parker." Murdock's eyes opened slowly, but remained unfocused as he stared right through the man who was still standing near the fireplace. "And I'm your friend's brother."

"Brother?" The surprise in Face's voice was perfectly evident.

"Murdock ain't got no brother!" BA said firmly. "An' if he did, it wouldn't be _you_!"

"He's telling the truth, BA." All eyes – except Murdock's – turned to Hannibal as he spoke up, his voice flat and even. Murdock's eyes remained on Alan, much older and more scarred than Murdock remembered him. But it was still him. And Murdock wasn't hallucinating. He really _was _standing there.

"You never said anything about no brother!" BA's surprise was aimed directly at Murdock now, and he shrank back instinctively. He couldn't handle BA's reaction. He couldn't cope with it right now.

"What's going on?" He almost didn't recognize the female voice. As he tried to place it, Murdock found himself struggling to figure out the entire world around him. _Kelly…_ He wasn't hallucinating. This was for real. "Whose brother?"

"Murdock's," Hannibal answered. "Come have a seat. Conversation's just getting started."

"You have a brother?" Kelly asked, confused.

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock saw her approach. But he didn't look at her. He looked the other way. Couldn't deal with her right now either. Couldn't deal with any of this. He needed to get away. He needed to sort through the millions of simultaneous thoughts, none of which made any sense at all.

"Murdock, if you had a brother," Face started cautiously, "how come you never said anything about it?"

It wasn't an accusatory question. He sounded curious, maybe even concerned. Murdock wanted to answer him, but he didn't have words.

Thank God Hannibal had a response ready. "_Had _a brother," he emphasized. He then turned to Alan. "We were all under the impression that you were killed in A Shau."

"A Shau?" Face's eyes widened a little.

"What's A Shau?" Kelly asked quietly.

Murdock shut his eyes. "It was a camp in Vietnam," he explained, his own voice just as quiet and unassuming as hers. Maybe if he could explain this to her, he could manage to wrap his own mind around it. Maybe he could process it, one small piece at a time. "It got attacked and… not everyone got out."

"You were at that camp?" Kelly questioned, looking up at Alan.

"Sort of," he answered. "I wasn't stationed there. I was with a group of soldiers that went there to defend it."

"That's right, you went into the Mike Force," BA recalled. "I remember that. We never thought we'd see you again."

"What's the Mike Force?" Kelly bit her lip as she glanced at Murdock.

"They were a countrywide reaction force based in Nha Trang. A division of 5th Special Forces," Hannibal explained before Murdock had a chance to put words together. He simplified the definition for her benefit, not wanting to get on a tangent. "Whenever one of the A-camps got into trouble, a Mike Force was sent in to help them out. A Shau was one of those camps."

"They knew they were going to get hit," Alan began quietly. "The camp was pretty well cut off. An easy target. Far from any supporting artillery and staffed with a few hundred CIDG and a handful of Americans."

"CIDG?" Kelly asked when he paused.

"C-I-D-G," Murdock spelled it out for her. "Stands for Civilian Irregular Defense Group."

"Vietnamese soldiers," Face offered. "Most of the ones we worked with were from minority groups, like tribes up in the mountains."

"The LLDB had, er – " Alan glanced at Kelly and gave a slight smirk. "The Vietnamese Special Forces had abandoned the only other two camps out there a few months earlier. So A Shau was out there alone blocking the Ho Chi Minh trail. The NVA – the bad guys from the north – had been moving in for quite a while when we got the call. We packed that place full, and armed ourselves to the teeth. But I found out later they still outnumbered us six to one, and a whole bunch of the fuckin' CIDG were gonna turn on us."

Murdock opened his eyes again and looked up at the man. His gaze was cold, almost threatening. "Look, we all know what happened at A Shau," he said, his tone a definite warning. He realized after he'd said it that Kelly didn't know, but he could explain it to her later. He didn't want a history lesson right now. He wanted answers. "How 'bout we get to the part where you got out alive."

"I was there when you guys came." Alan glanced around at each of the men in the room. "I heard the explosion when you took the door off the holding cell."

"Everyone there seemed to think you were dead," Face informed him, his brow creased in a look that showed his confusion.

"I'm sure they thought I was," Alan answered. "I'd been in –" He halted suddenly and Murdock could see the look in his eyes darken as if a shadow had suddenly passed over his face on a bright summer day. He looked away, jaw set. "- interrogation for three days. They'd already killed two of us in that time."

Face and Hannibal exchanged glances, but didn't speak. Alan continued after a brief pause. "After you guys pulled off that prison snatch, they sent me to Son Tay. Then Dong Hoi when Son Tay flooded. Then Hoa Lo in Hanoi after Ivory Coast."

Murdock's eyes closed. Shit… "You were at Son Tay?"

"For a while, yeah."

"Ivory Coast?" Kelly asked, overwhelmed with all of the unfamiliar names.

"Operation Ivory Coast was a raid on the POW camp at Son Tay," Face explained. "Hannibal helped organize it."

"'Cept when we got there," BA continued, "there weren't no POWs."

"Still," Hannibal defended. "It was tactically brilliant."

Murdock opened his eyes again and stared directly at Alan. "You weren't at Hoa Lo when they released their prisoners," he stated confidently. "I checked."

"No, I wasn't," Alan confirmed. "During the transport from Dong Hoi, four of us made a break for it. I don't know who the other three were. I never even got their names. We'd all been kept in solitary for so long… I didn't really even remember my own. All three of them were shot. I managed to get away."

Alan took a deep breath, lowering his head and staring at a spot on the floor. "I spent weeks in the jungle, just heading south. Then I… fell down." He shook his head. "I remember falling face down and closing my eyes and thinking how fuckin' ironic that this was how I was gonna die. And I don't remember anything else until I was standing on a street corner in Saigon."

"Why didn't you go to a base?" Hannibal asked. "When you found yourself in Saigon, I mean."

Alan looked up, met Hannibal's eyes with an empty stare, and shook his head. "I don't know. It's all fuzzy." He sighed deeply and turned away, pacing a few steps. "There was a woman in Saigon that I'd… come to know."

"You mean you'd gotten her pregnant," Murdock corrected, eyes narrowed. "If I remember correctly, you'd just found out when you got sent to A Shau."

"Yeah, I did," Alan answered, turning back. "And I went to live with her. Married her. I was there for six years after I escaped. We came to the states when Bach Yen got pregnant a second time."

"Again," Hannibal said, "why didn't you find an Army base? How did you even get back in the country?"

"Illegally."

"Why?" Face asked. "You were a citizen. Your wife and kid could've gotten citizenship through you."

"We flew into San Francisco and… bought new identities from a guy who was willing to sell them for a thousand dollars each. When our son was born, he was an American citizen." He looked away. "He died two years later. He was… sick."

Too much information. Too much _irrelevant _information that didn't even make any sense. At the moment, Murdock only cared about one thing: the thought that kept racing in circles around his brain. "So you just decided not to contact me – or anyone – 'cause you didn't _feel _like it?" he cried. He rose to his feet, not giving Alan a chance to respond. "Do you have any idea the… the hell that it's like living and not knowing what happened and you did that to me 'cause you didn't want to inconvenience yourself?"

There was this part of him that expected someone – Hannibal, maybe – to stop him. But nobody did. Nobody said a word and his thoughts tumbled fast and furious out of his mouth. "I checked newspapers every day looking for something to tell me that they'd found someone else! When they're sayin' there's no more POWs over there and any other MIA must just be dead! And I just wanted to find your body or… or _anything_! And you were alive? You were in San Francisco?"

"I wasn't in San Francisco for very long," Alan answered, as if that might somehow make it all better.

Murdock could feel his hands balling into fists, and he fought back the unusual flicker of violence that flashed across his mind - a brief picture of him grabbing the back of Alan's head and putting it through the brick fireplace. The thought horrified the part of him that was still capable of reason. He had to get out of here. But his escape plan was hijacked by another infuriating thought.

"You even knew where to find me!" he realized. "You knew exactly how to find me!"

"That wasn't hard," Alan pointed out. "Once I found out you became part of their unit in Vietnam, I knew you'd still keep in contact with them."

Murdock stared at him incredulously. "And in fifteen years since you got outta there, you're just _now _making an effort?"

"I need your help."

"Oh, go to hell!" Murdock couldn't believe the nerve of the man standing before him. Every fiber of his being was overcome with fury as he realized what he was hearing. "You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I'm –"

He stopped abruptly as the words coming out of his mouth hit his ears. They sounded all wrong. The resounding anger in his tone was not a good thing. He did not like it. He also did not like the fact that the violent images were no longer flashes but full-fledged scenes of blood and gore like he'd not seen in years. He could feel the eyes of his team on him, watching him, waiting tensely in case he went off the deep end.

He had to get away from here.

He closed his eyes slowly, took a calming breath, and continued in a tranquil tone that his shrink would've been proud of. "I think I need some air."

Without another word, and careful not to make eye contact with anyone, he turned and proceeded calmly to the nearest exit, then stepped out into the quickly-cooling night.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**1969**

"You okay, Lieutenant?"

It had taken some time to find Lieutenant Murdock. He'd disappeared almost as soon as they'd touched down, before they'd even gone to give their debriefing. Not wanting to cause trouble for the young pilot, Smith had put the others on hold while he went to find him. Besides, the rest of his team was just as covered in blood and gore as he was, and they would do well to clean up before presenting themselves to Davids.

"I'm fine, Colonel."

From the tone of his voice, Smith could tell he was not fine. He shrugged his weapon off his shoulder as he sat down beside him on the ground, with his back up against the steel sheets of the hangar. Murdock glanced at him.

"No offense, Colonel, but you really need to shower."

Smith grinned. "Yeah, I know." He felt his pockets, and realized that the cigar he always kept in his breast pocket had been broken – probably that last time he'd had to duck. Still, it was worth it just for the few minutes that it would last. But he was less successful finding his lighter.

Before he had a chance to ask, Murdock had offered his own. He took it with a smile. "Thanks, kid."

Hunched over his knees with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, the man did look remarkably like a lost little kid. Maybe it was the faraway look in his eyes. It wasn't the glazed look of a man who'd seen too much blood and could no longer cope; that look was far more distinct. It was the look of a man who was realizing the sheer insignificance of life, and having a hard time accepting it.

"So you wanna tell me what you know about Parker?" Smith asked.

For a long moment, Murdock was still. Then, slowly, he sat up and reached into his breast pocket. Without a word, he withdrew a folded Polaroid picture and handed it to Smith, who took it and studied the smiling face of a muscular, dark-haired man. On the man's left was a Vietnamese woman, arms hanging around his neck, kissing his cheek. The worn crease down the center of the photo told something of its age, but the man in the photo was clearly a soldier, and clearly in Vietnam.

"My brother," Murdock said quietly. "Alan Parker."

Smith stared at the photo, studying it carefully, then handed it back. "I'm sorry," he offered, sincerely.

"You always know it could happen, right?" The distance in his voice was almost eerie. "You just hope... And you don't think about how you're gon' deal with it when it does happen."

Smith looked away.

"I guess it wouldn't even be so bad if I just… had a body. You know? Something to…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"He's gone, Lieutenant," Smith stated. "And there's nothing you can do about it. Settle that for yourself right now, or the guilt will eat you alive."

Murdock turned his head. His distant eyes were glistening, but the clenched jaw made it clear that he was a man who refused to break down and cry. That was good, at least. Smith had never been comfortable dealing with that sort of thing. "We've all lost people in this goddamn bloody war," Smith continued, avoiding eye contact in favor of studying his cigar. "There's no way around that. You just keep going. Keep doing what you have to do."

"You know, it's funny..." Murdock laughed, but it was without humor. Out of the corner of his eye, Smith saw the lieutenant lean back until his wrists were on his knees, eyes turned to the helicopter that was lifting off the ground against a backdrop of the early-morning sunrise. "I didn't have to come here. But I guess I'm crazy 'cause I actually wanted to. I was stationed for a while in the States after my first rotation in Thailand…" He laughed, and his eyes slid closed as he shook his head. "Worst six months of my life. Never been so goddamn bored. Found out they needed chopper pilots in 'Nam and put in my paperwork that very same day. I didn't care what they put me in to fly, I just couldn't wait to get over here, to see some action. But right now, maybe the first time in my entire life..." He trailed off, and Smith glanced at him. Their eyes locked as the younger man continued in a whisper. "I just wanna go home."

It was a very real sympathy that Smith felt for the man all of a sudden - an unusual feeling. Death was a part of life out here, and none of them ever really expected to live through the day. None of them really knew if their friends and teammates would come back alive when they crossed the wire. Even within his own team, Smith was careful to gauge the emotional distance that had to – by necessity – remain in place. They worked together, they thought as one. But they would have to do that even when they were missing a part of the team. Even when that part of the team was never coming back. It had happened before. It could very well happen again.

"How short are you?" he asked quietly.

Murdock shook his head, turning back to watch as the chopper headed off in the general direction of Saigon. "I just extended my tour. I'm in 'til November at least."

Smith nodded slowly, taking another hit off the cigar. "It was some pretty impressive dodging you did back there," he observed. "I never knew a chopper that heavy could move quite like that."

Murdock nodded, but didn't otherwise reply.

"What else do you fly?"

The pilot let a slight, almost sad smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "If it's got wings, sir? I can fly it."

Smith nodded slowly. "Ever fly a Kingbee?"

Murdock chuckled. "Those piece of shit choppers are great," he answered. "You can blow cylinders out of that thing and still get yourself home."

Smith considered that for a moment, and looked in the other direction as he continued. "You know, Murdock? I believe what my men say about you."

Murdock raised a brow. "What is that?"

"Harrison really likes you. Peck says you're the best."

Murdock blinked, surprised. He'd never even met Lieutenant Peck before this morning. Whatever reputation Murdock had, there was no reason to expect that it would've gotten around to Peck. Harrison, maybe. But not Peck.

"Your record is… impressive," Smith continued. "And with your performance tonight... Well, you're the best damn chopper pilot I've flown with since I've been here."

"What are you getting at, Colonel?" Murdock asked cautiously. He'd learned a long time ago to beware of flattery. Particularly when it came from a superior who didn't seem the type to give it in the first place.

Smith turned and studied him for a long moment. "I can't send you home, Lieutenant. But I may be able to arrange a place for you on this team."

Murdock's eyes widened at that. "On an A-Team?" He shook his head, confused. "I'm not Special Forces, sir. I'm not even Army."

Smith paused for a moment before answering him. "Do you know why I went through the trouble of requesting you, specifically, for this assignment?"

"I figured it had something to do with the Skyraider incident."

"Initially," Smith admitted with a nod. "But more importantly, you were able to look me straight in the eye and say you were the best. And you believed it."

Murdock straightened a little before he answered with complete confidence, "Still do, sir."

"Then you'll understand what I'm saying when I tell you that my team is the best damn SOG unit that the Special Forces has ever seen. We're not just an A-Team, Lieutenant. We're _the_ A-Team."

Murdock smirked as he recognized an arrogance that rivaled his own. "So what do you want me for?" he asked.

"I want a pilot I can rely on. For drops and extractions, mostly. But also for transport and air support and anything else we need. And I'm going to request that you be assigned to us on a more permanent basis. After we arrange to have the charges on your court martial dropped."

Murdock studied him for a moment, then nodded, forcing a smile. "If you can swing it, Colonel, I'll be there."

"Oh, I don't think it'll be too hard," Smith grinned. "I can be pretty persuasive."

**1985**

Silence.

There was no sound but the chirping crickets in the brush around him, and the soft swish of water against the land. It was calm, and there were hardly any waves on the surface of the tiny lake. Just a pool of shimmering glass, reflecting the moonlight and a thousand tiny stars.

Murdock breathed slowly, deeply. He was glad no one had followed him out of the cabin. He needed some space, some time to think. More than ever, he needed to reassure himself of what was real, and how he felt about it. For so long, Alan had existed only as a figment of his imagination, a product of too much trauma and too little sense. It seemed wrong to stand face to face with him, to hear his voice and know that others heard it, too.

That part way down deep inside of him that had been trying for years to consume him with guilt was screaming insults at him right now. _"I told you he wasn't dead! I told you! You gave up on him, you bastard! You turned and walked the other way and you left him for dead when you knew he wasn't dead!"_

Murdock's hands tightened into fists, nails digging into his palms as he sought for any direction he could safely deflect the self-hatred being heaped on his head. He had known. He'd never been able to explain how he'd known, but he'd always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his brother wasn't dead. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that it wasn't true, no matter how many newspaper reports told him that it wasn't true, he knew that it was.

_"What does it matter?"_ he shot back at that bitter, angry voice inside of him. _"It's not like I could've done anything about it."_

_ "You could've gotten him out."_

_ "Bullshit. There was nothing I could've done."_

_ "I guess we'll never know, will we? You gave up on him before we could find out."_

_ "Shut up!"_

He realized he felt pain, and looked down to see that there were tiny crescents of red where his fingernails had drawn blood out of his palms. _"You deserve to bleed a hell of a lot more than that, you crazy bastard…"_

"Damn it, shut _up_!" he yelled, out loud. The chirping crickets quieted, but the voice in his head only paused for a brief moment before it continued, laughing quietly. Murdock rose to his feet, pacing along the water's edge as his hands shook with fury at the taunting voice.

_"You were with the best SOG unit in Vietnam,"_ it ridiculed. _"You all risked your necks to save men you didn't even know and you wouldn't even go in for your own brother."_

"We did go in for him," Murdock growled. "We went all the way to Son Tay! He wasn't there!"

_"You should've kept trying."_

"It wasn't my call!"

_"So you just gave up on him. You pretended he was dead. Pretended like there was nothing you could do."_

"There _was _nothing I could do."

_"If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, you go right ahead. But he spent years in a POW camp knowing that nobody even cared."_

"I did care!" That one final yell, up at the sky, probably echoed all the way to God in heaven. More importantly, it silenced the noise in his head. Exhausted by the rush of emotion, Murdock sank to his knees, lowering his head as he struggled to catch his breath and slow his heart rate. His pulse was pounding in his ears as the tears streamed down his face.

**1969**

"I had a dog and his name was Blue…"

Murdock listened to the unfamiliar song, slow and sad, as it echoed off the walls of the NCO club. On the lips of a dozen scarred soldiers, none of them particularly in tune, the song recounting the life, loyalty, and companionship of Old Blue held a whole new meaning to them now. The Special Operations Group had lost one of their own on a mission in North Vietnam.

"Hey, Blue, you're a good dog you…"

At the final chorus, instead of calling the dog's name over his grave, the somber choir recited a long list of names – men who'd lost their lives in SOG ops. At the conclusion of the song, several of the men headed to bed. But Murdock remained behind, sitting at the bar, soaking in the depressing atmosphere that hung in the air all around him.

"You okay?"

He looked up as the blond lieutenant approached, sitting down beside him at the bar. "Yeah I'm fine," he mumbled under his breath.

"You should get some sleep," Peck suggested, almost casually, taking another long drink from his beer. "I hear Westman has new orders for us tomorrow."

"Westman?"

"General Ross Westman," Peck clarified. Murdock recognized the name, but he wasn't sure where from. "He's sort of unofficially our CO. Officially, SOG is accountable directly to the Pentagon but it's not like they call to chat with us on a regular basis. Westman acts as sort of a liaison. He either gives us our orders or he sends us to someone else who will."

"Great." The comment was as unenthusiastic as it could get.

"He's a good man to know."

"I'm sure."

Peck glanced at the man sitting beside him, and raised a brow. "You know, Murdock," he started, "if you go to pieces every time you see a man go down, you're not going to last very long."

Murdock turned to him, brows raised in surprise at the challenging accusation. "Not going to last?" he shot back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean up here." Peck tapped his own temple with his index finger. "It's not just bullets that kill you, you know. And you're no good to us dead." He finished the last of his beer and left the empty glass on the bar as he slapped Murdock's back. "Think about it."

Without another word, Peck was gone. Murdock shook his head as he watched him go.

"Kind of a hard-ass, isn't he?"

Murdock looked up again and briefly locked eyes with Ray. "He's definitely overcompensating for something," Murdock mumbled under his breath. "I just don't know what." He raised his voice a little so he could be heard. "Fearless is one thing. But he's downright stupid about this." He finished the last of his drink and gestured for another one. "Almost like he doesn't realize how serious it is."

Ray chuckled. "That's a keen observation," he nodded. "But actually, you couldn't be more wrong about why."

Murdock glanced at him for an explanation, but said nothing.

"He knows it's serious. But he also knows that it's a part of the life we chose. We'll probably all die out there. Hell, we know it every time we cross the wire." Ray finished the last of his drink with a slight smile. "Face is one of those guys that… I used to think he had a death wish. Then I realized that he just doesn't think about it."

Murdock raised a brow at that. "Sounds like a death wish to me."

Ray chuckled. "No, you misunderstood me. He doesn't ignore the risks; that would be more like Hannibal. He just doesn't allow himself to dwell on them."

"So Hannibal's the one with the death wish?" Murdock looked away.

Ray studied him for a moment, and lit up a cigarette in the silence that followed. "Did you know that for the longest time, Hannibal's recon team had a reoccurring problem that every time they came back, everyone would quit?"

Murdock couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," Ray answered. "He'd pull some pretty death-defying stunts. Had good instincts, though. Always has. The men he brought back were still alive to quit."

Murdock stared down into his drink, swirling it a little in the glass. "So how'd you get hooked into this?" he asked, curious.

"I volunteered. Sought him out, actually. Been here ever since."

"What about Peck?"

"Face?" Ray corrected.

"Face," Murdock granted. "Sorry."

He still hadn't gotten used to the fact that they all went by nicknames here. The best he could figure it, the nicknames were part of the cut they made with their born identities when they entered SOG. It wasn't any kind of written rule, just standard practice accepted by all of them. Stripped of their identities, and even their names, many of them no longer considered themselves those same people. They were nothing more than soldiers. For many, the fact that they managed to maintain that distinction was part of what enabled them to walk into death without a second thought.

"Face was a little bit different," Ray offered. "He and Hannibal kind of clashed at first. Of course, you couldn't tell now. Now, you can't separate them. BA and I rotate out as One-Two, though BA's first love is definitely demo. Cruiser's got extensive medical training. He goes just about every drop. But Hannibal's always One-Zero, and Face has been One-One for the past 16 drops."

Murdock shook his head. "Sorry," he managed. "I only understood about half of that."

Ray chuckled. "The One-Two is the radio operator. The One-Zero is the team leader. He makes the call on what happens where and how. The One-One is his assistant, and replacement if he's KIA. While the One-Zero is alive, the One-One will never make the call for an emergency extraction, for example. But he'll do the flyovers and take surveillance pictures before we drop in if Hannibal has too many other things to do." Ray smiled. "Contrary to what you might see on your end, each one of these drops takes a ridiculous amount of planning. Unless we're on the ground, Hannibal is usually a camp ahead of us."

"And Harris- er… Cruiser is a medic?"

"Yeah," Ray nodded. "We're all cross-trained. But Cruiser was actually in med school before he dropped out to join the Army."

"So why didn't Hannibal and Face get along?" Murdock asked, going back to the original question.

"Mostly because they were both good and they both knew it… but they were polar opposites. Face likes planning; Hannibal likes spontaneity. Hannibal likes confrontation; Face prefers to evade. It makes them a perfect team. They balance each other out," he smirked, "even if the outcome of most of their arguing ends in Hannibal's favor."

"He's in charge," Murdock shrugged.

"And he has no problem putting Face down if he starts getting too cocky. You might see it once or twice while you're working with us. It's always a trip."

"So how'd Face end up here?" Murdock asked, recalling the "bitching" in the TOC. He still wasn't exactly sure what to think about that.

"Hannibal pulled him in," Ray explained, pausing for a deep breath on his cigarette. "Personality conflict or not, he's damn good. Face held the record on POW snatches even before he got assigned to us." He leaned sideways on the bar and tipped his head slightly. "He knows what he's doing, and he's damn good at it. Even if he is a bit rough around the edges."

**1985**

"Mark? Really?"

Murdock shut his eyes, as if he could make the intrusion go away if he just pretended he wasn't there. "Go away, Face."

But Face didn't go away. He came closer, and sat down at the water's edge next to Murdock. "How do you get Mark?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

As Face sat down, legs crossed in front of him, Murdock got up, and walked a few steps before picking up a stone. He threw it out over the water, skipping it a few times.

"Just curious," Face prodded. "I've got to be honest, I never thought to ask you what your full name was. I know it's just HM on all your government paperwork. And everything at the VA."

"That's all it is," Murdock answered roughly. "Just HM. I had it changed when I was eighteen. Before I enlisted." He bent and picked up another stone. "My brother changed his, too. 'Cept he changed his last name at the same time. Made a clean cut. I kept my last name."

Face watched him, not speaking. He wasn't exactly sure where he expected this conversation to go. He certainly had no intention of driving it. If anything, he was here to be a sounding board. If the confrontation back at the cabin was any indication, Murdock probably needed one right about now. Crazy though he may be, it was rare to see him lose control like that.

"Why?" Face finally asked. He realized that if he didn't prod a little, there would be no conversation at all.

Murdock sighed audibly and threw another stone out over the water. This one skipped three times. "My mother was seasonal manic-depressive," he mumbled, almost too low and too slurred for Face to understand him. "Somethin' 'bout pregnancy hormones made her flat out crazy. When she had me an' my brother, she named us both the stupidest shit she could think of." He bent down again, and spent a moment brushing the dirt off the stone before he threw it, too. "So she called him Israel'sglory – complete with the apostrophe, an' that was his _first _name – Matthew Murdock. An' she called me Hosanna Marcus."

Face swallowed hard to keep himself from smiling. It was a good thing, too, because Murdock had immediately turned to see his reaction. And clearly, from the look of anger and disgust on Murdock's face, it was not funny to him. Once he was convinced that he wasn't being ridiculed, he looked back out over the water and picked up another stone.

"Even after she died, my father wouldn't let me change it. Was the first thing both Alan and I did when we turned eighteen."

"How much older is he?" Face asked.

"Ten months."

Face's eyes widened. He hadn't even known that was possible. "Seriously? Geez, your parents must have been busy."

Murdock sighed audibly. "She had six kids _before _me and Alan, too. They got taken away by the state. Never met any of 'em. No idea who they are. She met my dad, and just forgot about 'em and started a new family. I didn't find out 'til she died that they weren't even married. She just always said they were. He never said much of anything. Never seemed to like us very much. 'Specially after she died."

Face knew his jaw was dropped. He forced himself to shake off the surprise. "I always thought you and your mother were close."

"We were," Murdock shrugged. "When she was around." He sighed deeply. "When she'd get manic, she'd disappear for days. Find her in a jail somewhere three hours away 'cause she started some bar fight while she was dancin' half naked on the tables, preachin' 'bout hellfire an' damnation."

Face stared.

"But I was just a kid. I didn't understand any of that. Not 'til I got older." He gave a half-laugh, a slight, self-deprecating smile. "Hell, I don't even think the man who raised me was my real father. I never looked nothin' like him an' I sure as hell don't look like Alan."

Face had known that there was a reason why he knew practically nothing about Murdock's family. He'd never guessed that the reasons were so... colorful. "So were you and Alan close?" He shook his head a little, trying to fathom it.

"Nah, we never got along," Murdock answered quietly. He threw the next stone so hard, snapping his arm toward the water in a blur, that it skipped six times before it dropped beneath the glassy surface. There was something raw there, Face could tell. Something emotional. Something he didn't dare touch with a ten foot pole.

"At least he's alive," Face offered quietly.

Murdock laughed. Briefly, cynically, and without the slightest hint of humor. "That supposed to make me feel _better_?"

Face was quite honestly stunned by the response. "Sure it is," he answered immediately. "You have a living, breathing, flesh and blood relative out there. That's more than you could say before. It's more than I can say..."

"Yeah, well, you can have 'im." The next stone shot halfway out into the lake as well before falling out of sight, lost forever. "I don't want 'im."

Face stared, stunned. "Come on, Murdock, you don't mean that."

Murdock paused long enough that Face knew he was thoroughly considering his words. Finally, he turned toward Face, and rocked back on his heels. "Yeah I do, Face," he concluded. "I absolutely, positively mean it."

Face studied him, considering the seriousness in his voice. "If that's the case, then why did you go after him?" he challenged. "As I recall, that's the mission where you got hooked up with us in the first place. A Shau? You were also the only one who _pushed_ for Son Tay."

"I'm sayin' I wish he'd died," Murdock clarified. "I wouldn't wish a POW camp on _anyone_."

"So... the plan was to get him out and then go your separate ways like you didn't even know him?" Face was trying to understand. He was having a hard time doing it. And in the meantime, he could see Murdock's frustration mounting.

"Look, it was different then. But _he's _the one who decided he didn't wanna be my brother anymore!" he snapped. "I didn't make that call. He did."

"That's not what I just saw." Face pointed back over his shoulder.

"Only reason he's here now is 'cause he needs somethin'. Else he woulda showed up years ago, when he first got back to the States."

"Murdock, you don't know all the reasons why he –"

"I don't wanna know!"

Face shut up. For a long moment, he just stared at his friend, watching him pace until he finally collapsed in a heap on the ground with his head in his hands.

"I just don't care," Murdock slurred.

Face knew when not to speak. And he didn't speak. He just sat still, quiet, turning his gaze out toward the lake in front of him.

"You know how hard it is," Murdock finally continued, "when you gotta deal with the fact that someone you care about is dead an' you don't even know what happened to 'em?"

Face lowered his eyes. "We alllost people in that war, Murdock. Friends, neighbors, cousins, brothers…"

"Yeah, but he wasn't gone," Murdock cried. "He just let me think he was! Let me go through that, let me live with it every day…" He trailed off again as his voice cracked, and looked away. "He let me live with that for over fifteen years. An' he didn't have to; he knew where to find me. He knew right where to find me when he needed somethin'. Now I'm s'posed to be happy because he come waltzin' back in like nothin' ever happened?" He shook his head, and dropped it forward again, into his hands. "I can't do that, Face. I can't."

Face studied him, silent, for a long time. But he knew full well that no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he wasn't going to come up with anything comforting to say. So he just stayed silent... and pretended not to notice the silent tears that were falling into his friend's hands.


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**1985**

Kelly hung back, just out of sight, arms crossed and hugging herself tightly. As Face passed her, he offered a reassuring smile, and she forced herself to reply in kind. But she didn't feel reassured. As he continued back up to the cabin, she took a few more hesitant steps closer to the figure huddled at the side of the lake, crunching a few twigs under her feet. Murdock glanced over his shoulder at the sound, but quickly looked away again when he saw who it was.

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly as she approached.

"About like a canvas tent in a tornado," he admitted.

She came closer and sat down beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Anything I can do to help?"

He shook his head. "No, I just..." He sighed deeply, letting his voice trail off as he leaned forward, putting his forehead on his knees. "Damn it, I just wanna know why," he started. "Why wouldn't he ever call, or write, or just find some way to let me know that he wasn't dead!" He raised his head again to look out over the still surface of the water, pulling his legs in closer. "All these years I thought there was no chance he could possibly still be alive. If I'd known, Kelly, if I'd even thought there was a remote possibility..."

She watched him carefully, but didn't speak. She had nothing to say.

"I'm so... I just can't think. All this stuff goin' on in my head and it's just too damn much. I can't even find my way out of the brown paper bag. My head's all twisted. Some kinda origami contraption like those folded pieces of nothing we used to make when we were kids."

He was losing his grip. He'd been slowly losing it for hours. But now he could hear it in his voice and tone even if he couldn't hear the words he was saying because they were screaming too loud in his head - way too fast - before they ever got to his mouth. Like machine gun fire on an AC-47 that could give off a jillion rounds per second at the targets he didn't even know if he wanted to hit anymore. So long ago, and yet it was just like it was now. Like it was happening all over again. And while his brain wound further and further down that dangerous path, he realized that everything inside of him was screaming in agony at the thought of going there in front of the woman who was sitting next to him. But he was losing his grip and there was no stopping it. He was losing it...

"Murdock..."

And she didn't know how to take it.

"No, don't talk," he ordered firmly, holding his head in his hands. "Don't talk because I need to just not talk so I can make this go away before it makes me –"

Her finger against his lips cut off his protests and his train of thought with the same stroke, just like a guillotine. That rambling voice of memories and present confusion was silenced, just for a second. "Murdock, look at me."

But as quickly, he could hear those same thoughts creeping up again. Like a leopard in the tall grass, just waiting to pounce and drag him off like prey into someplace where he would never come back. His eyes slipped out of focus as he went without a fight, too emotionally exhausted to save his own life and well aware that his protests would land on deaf ears even if he gave it his absolute best shot. He was slipping...

Back to the agony of uncertainty. Back into the blood-soaked memories of sleepless nights. To the smell of fear and death and decay and the burning scent of gunfire and napalm-fried skin. Back to the insanity of war, of slaughtering another human being simply because if he didn't… they would slaughter him.

Confusion.

It wasn't his fault he'd crashed; the damn thing handled like a boat and it was all on fire after the rockets hit it. The rockets wouldn't have hit it if he could've dodged them but it couldn't have been his fault. He couldn't have saved them. He couldn't have saved any of them.

Chaos.

The Skyraider just wasn't built for extractions. He couldn't have saved Alan. He'd barely saved the major…

"Come back to me, Murdock."

Back to her... Back from where? Wrong question. He knew where he was. The rush of confused and long forgotten memories returned to him so quickly, it made him recoil with such an abrupt determination that he had to make a conscious effort not to cry out as if he'd just put his hand flat against the red-hot coils of an electric stove. Rambling thoughts. Screams and shouted orders. Panic and anger.

"Come back to me..."

Where was she?

He searched through memories of nameless women in the Saigon brothels, like little doses of Lidocaine on a third degree burn. Too little too late to take away the pain. Drinking binges and week-long hangovers. Uniform and Article 15. Silence and uncertainty. It hadn't taken him long to give up on all of it. Never knowing until he never thought he ever even cared. Bedlam. Agony.

"Come back to me, Murdock..."

Guilt and anger. Hatred and betrayal. _"Alan, I think I made a mistake..."_ Trained for so long not to flinch at the sight of blood. Not to think about the life that was spilling out on the ground. _"Better they should never know..."_ Locked doors and too many voices, echoing off the whitewashed walls. Memories that were never his to begin with, lies and mind games, loss and loneliness.

_"We want you on the team..."_ Drugged and confused and staring at a familiar face as if he didn't even know him. Lie to him, too. Better he should never know. _"I gotta stay in here, Colonel. The door's locked and the monkeys don't like it if I come out..."_ Guns and grenades. Civilian life was nothing more than a glorified horror movie.

"Shh, Murdock..." A finger on his lips told him he was speaking out loud. The thinking was too loud to stop echoing on his lips. "Shh, it's okay. Come back to me..."

"Where are you?" He was dizzy, falling. Did the words even make it to his mouth? "Where are you, Kelly? Where are you?"

"I'm right here."

Thoughts racing, adrenaline pounding. Second nature to fly a plane. He didn't need to think. Mind wandering... sing louder. Don't lose that delicate balance or fall off that tightly pulled rope and hit the ground below in flames and screaming and death. Nowhere to go but forward. No destination but higher. _"Get the clearance, Murdock. Lynch is right behind us." _Months and weeks and years of confusion and pain and it had all led him right here. Now if he could only find his way through the darkness and figure out where "here" was.

"Murdock!"

His eyes opened suddenly and locked on the face of a woman who was holding her hands on either side of his head. The determined stare in her deep blue eyes broke through his chaos for a moment and the rambling voices faded to ambient noise in the background, like chatter in a crowded room. "Look at me," she ordered. "Look at me, Murdock."

"I am looking at you," he managed, confused.

"Don't look away."

He brought his eyes into focus, and forced them to stay that way even as they kept trying to fuzz out again. He stared at her - the determined stare, the deep concern. She let go of his face, and slender fingers traced his jaw, still holding him lightly. "Just look at me," she whispered. "Come back to me. Breathe..."

That voice. So familiar, so sweet... He clung to it. Obeyed it. Slowly, the rambling in the background of his mind became unimportant. Nothing mattered except that voice, and the beautiful blue eyes he was staring into. For a moment, that was his entire world. And it was a comforting, safe feeling.

"You..." He swallowed hard. "You have pretty eyes."

She smiled, and the corners of those pretty eyes crinkled up. Very slowly, he raised a hand, touching her lips with his thumb as he stroked the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, nuzzling against it. "Thank you," she whispered back, though he wasn't really sure what she was thanking him for.

He was just about to ask when she leaned forward, bringing her lips against his. He caught a quick breath before the kiss, and held it, letting his hand drift back into her hair. He slowly realized, as their tongues played over each other, that even the indistinguishable murmur of thoughts was gone from his mind.

How did she do that? How did she silence all of that screaming in his head? If she could bottle that up and sell it, he knew more than a few doctors who'd sell their souls to get their hands on it...

Slowly, she pulled back and reached up to brush the side of his face. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, his eyes immediately finding hers again. His mind was whitewashed. There were no thoughts there, good or bad. That was amazing, since he realized with a sort of detached carelessness that he'd just relived twenty years of his life in two minutes. In vivid detail.

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

He nodded again, and forced a smile. "I'm sure."

She grinned back, brushing his lips with her fingers. "You kinda scared me for a minute there."

He laughed a little uneasily, and lowered his eyes. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," she reassured him, tipping his face back up. "It's okay."

"If it helps any..." he started, unsure of his words or how to say them. "You did real good. Whatever you did, it... it was good."

She smiled. "My sister used to have panic attacks," she whispered. "I used to talk her through them."

"You're good," he said again. He smiled softly as he reached up and brushed a few stray pieces of hair back from her face. "You shoulda been a shrink."

She laughed, and leaned forward to kiss him again, soundly. As she pulled away, her eyes drifted back toward the cabin and the square windows of light in the darkness. "You ready to go back?" she asked quietly.

"Not really," he admitted, following her gaze.

"Well, I'm not staying out here again tonight," she declared, pulling away from him and rising to her feet. "I got eaten alive by mosquitoes last night, I'll have you know. And I think I even managed a few spider bites in some rather odd places."

She offered both hands down to him and he stared up at her for a long moment before he took her hands. She leaned back as he pulled himself up, then guided her arms around his waist. He embraced her as well and for a few minutes, they stood still in the moonlight.

"Hey, Murdock?"

"Hmm?" He pulled back a little to look down at her.

"Even if... well... I know you weren't expecting all of this to happen. But still, I want you to know..." Her eyes slid closed as he ran his fingers through her hair. "It's still been the best weekend of my whole life."

He smiled, genuinely, as she leaned in to kiss him again, briefly. "And it's not over yet," she reminded him. She pulled away suddenly and danced back, an invitation to follow. "We've got one more night, and one more morning, and a nice comfortable bed up at the end of this path here."

He lowered his head with a slight grin, giving her a little more of a head start before he started after her. As soon as he moved, she turned and bolted up the path with a shriek. He followed, shaking his head slightly as he smiled.


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

**1969**

"It's seven o'clock in the morning, Lieutenant."

Murdock opened his eyes, recognizing the pure disgust in the statement even if it took him a moment to figure out why. From where he was sitting, against the west wall of the team room at Tay Ninh, Smith looked like a towering skyscraper blocking out the early morning sun. Maybe the imagery had something to do with a near-empty bottle of vodka closed inside of Murdock's fist.

"Huh?" An intelligent response if he'd ever heard one.

"Cruiser?" Smith had turned away, calling off into the distance. The loud noise of his yell made the pounding in Murdock's head that much more excruciating.

The words that were exchanged by the two men were lost to him. He tipped his head back, trying to find the wall behind him, but his neck was like rubber. His head bounced from side to side, and made him dizzy. Finally, he gave up and let his chin rest on his chest. Without conscious thought, he raised the bottle to his lips again.

He didn't even notice he wasn't holding the bottle anymore until he almost hit himself in the face with his empty hand. "Wha…?" How had that happened?

"Tell me you didn't drink this whole thing, Murdock." The voice was only vaguely familiar. He couldn't place it. He didn't try.

"Noooo, no no no…" He laughed. He wasn't sure exactly why he was laughing, but something about the question was just hysterical. "No, that's the second bottle."

"Nice. Face, will you give me a hand here?"

Murdock opened his eyes to see the man standing over him. "Here's my hand," Murdock offered, holding it up. He laughed again as he realized he couldn't feel his fingers, and wiggled them a few times to see if the feeling would come back. "Hey, look! They move!"

"Come on, LT."

Suddenly, he was lurching forward and upward. It was a bad move. His stomach flip-flopped and the whole world tilted back and forth as if it was on a seesaw. Wobbly legs gave out from underneath him and he instinctively clawed for something to grab onto. But he couldn't move his arms. He realized belatedly that it was because there was a man on either side of him, holding them.

"Woah, baaaaaaad move _muchachos_, I…" Oh God, he could feel the liquor sloshing in his stomach. "I'm… I don't feel so good."

"Yeah, I bet you don't." At least one of these two men seemed to find this funny. Murdock didn't think it was very funny. He was going to be sick.

"Where are…?" His legs gave out as he tried to take a step, and the two men dragged him. His feet barely touched the ground. "Whaddaya want you? Can't we…? Where we goin'?"

"You're going to take a shower, Murdock."

A shower? He didn't feel much like taking a shower. He needed to lie down. "Noooo… bad idea." Eyes closed, he hadn't the slightest idea where he was as they propped him up against a cold wall.

"Bad," he declared again. "Dunna like it."

"Yeah, well, at the moment? You don't have much of a choice."

His eyes flew open as the icy water hit, and he jerked forward, losing his balance and nearly collapsing in the tiny stall. But a pair of hands shoved him back against the wall, holding him there under the merciless attack of the cold water.

"I got him."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Murdock was shivering, eyes wide and panicked as he struggled to figure out what the hell was going on. His insides twisted in funny ways again and this time, he couldn't hold it back. He bent forward – the hands held him on his feet but let him lean – and emptied all the vodka and bile his stomach still contained. The few seconds of gagging, his throat and mouth burning, gut tying painfully in knots, took his mind off of the cold water. But as soon as the heaving subsided, he was pulled up again, his face stuck right into the icy spray. He coughed and sputtered, trying to get away but too dizzy and sick to really fight.

"Rinse your mouth," a voice instructed patiently.

He decided in that moment to trust that voice. Whoever it belonged to, it seemed to have his best interest in mind. Maybe it would even tell him how to get out of this ice cold water.

Soaked to the bone in his olive green fatigues and combat boots, Murdock's entire body shook violently. Finally, he was dragged out of the shower and shoved, none-too-gently, onto the wooden bench outside of the stall.

"You know, when I said I'd buy you a drink, this wasn't what I had in mind."

A towel hit him in the face. He saw it coming, but didn't have the reflexes to grab it. He picked it up from where it had fallen on his lap and wrapped himself in it tightly, still shivering. He could barely hold onto the towel, his hands were so shaky. He looked up, and his eyes came to rest on the boyish features of the young lieutenant he'd met just a few days ago. The man was putting on his shirt, which he'd apparently removed to hold Murdock upright in the shower. So it was his voice Murdock had heard. It had to be his voice. He was the only one here. What was his name? His brain still muddled by alcohol, Murdock couldn't remember.

"Here."

Another voice. Murdock had the sense to turn his head very slowly as he looked toward it. Harrison was approaching, holding out an Army-issue coffee cup. He put it right up to Murdock's mouth instead of handing it to him. "Drink it," he ordered, tipping it up.

The shit tasted like motor oil. Lukewarm motor oil. Murdock almost gagged, and his stomach twisted in knots, rejecting the introduction of anything back into his system. But he didn't throw it up. And in a few miserable seconds, it was down – grounds and all. A pile of dry clothes hit him in the face.

"Get dressed," Harrison ordered. "We've got orders."

If anything could've sobered Murdock, it would've been those words. His eyes widened. "Orders?" he repeated, stunned. "Wha-? I can't fly like this!"

"Well, then you'd better get your shit together in one quick hurry," Harrison snapped at him.

The young lieutenant gave him a quick look up and down before turning and walking away. The panic was quickly overcoming the confusion in Murdock's mind. Orders? They wanted him to fly? He couldn't even walk straight! He was having difficulty finding the right hole in the shirt to put his arm into! Still freezing, still wet, still drunk, but now absolutely terrified on top of it all, he froze as he heard a new set of footsteps on the cement floor. He dared a quick look at the entrance, and forced himself to take a slow, calming breath as he recognized the figure.

"Give us a minute, Cruiser," Colonel Smith ordered, looking straight at Murdock.

There was no objection. Harrison simply stood and walked out the door without a word. Another slow breath did little to calm Murdock's nerves as he suddenly realized he was trapped - dripping wet, half-dressed, and drunk - in a room with his CO. The look on Smith's face spoke volumes. He was not pleased.

Murdock shrank back, trying to make himself small, as Smith put one black boot up on the bench beside him, and leaned with one arm on the wall, towering over him. If he was trying to be intimidating, he was doing a damn good job of it. "Lemme tell you about Special Ops, Lieutenant," he started.

Murdock swallowed hard. He had no idea what to expect. But he knew it wasn't going to be pretty. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as Smith continued.

"We work hard. And we play hard. But we do it in that order."

Smith leaned in very slowly as Murdock backed up against the wall. Pressed back as far as he could go, truly trapped, he was truly nose-to-nose with Smith. Death didn't scare him. Torture didn't scare him. But in that moment, Colonel John Smith scared him.

"If I ever catch you drinking again at seven o'clock in the morning," Smith growled, "I'll ship you back to the States so fast, you'll still be drunk when you touch down. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Murdock's couldn't speak. He couldn't pry his tongue off the roof of his dry mouth. He nodded mutely, hoping against hope that it would be good enough. It wasn't. Smith's eyes narrowed into slits. "I can't hear you, Lieutenant," he spat with obvious contempt.

"Yes, sir," Murdock managed, somehow.

Smith stood up straight again, and headed for the door. "You have one hour," he warned. "And if you're not perfectly sober by the time we're ready to leave, you're off my team."

One hour. Murdock's eyes slid closed as he listened to the frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. How was he supposed to be sober in an hour?

With a determination borne of panic, he realized he needed more of that coffee. A lot more. And he was definitely going to need a couple aspirin, too.

**1985**

Seven o'clock in the morning and Alan was sitting on the front porch, already halfway through a six pack and a quarter of a way through a pack of cigarettes. Murdock glared him – at the entire spectacle – as he looked through the screen door. "Nice breakfast," he said, disgusted. "You tryin' to drink yourself to death?"

Alan took a long, slow drag off the cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the door. "After the way you was talkin' yesterday, I'm kinda surprised you care."

With a deep sigh, Murdock stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door clap closed behind him. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hat pulled low over his forehead. It was cool this morning, fog hanging low in the trees and across the yard.

"Nice jacket," Alan grinned.

Murdock's eyes narrowed. He briefly considered telling the other man to go to hell, but swallowed the words. Instead, he leaned on the porch column and stared silently down at the wooden planks of the floor for a few long, lingering moments.

"Look, uh... I just want you to know that..." He sighed deeply, and looked up. Alan had finished another beer, and reached for another one. "I'm still real mad at you," Murdock continued, feeling all of the anger rekindle again just at the sight of him.

It took a few seconds for a response. "I figure you got a right to be," Alan granted.

"You got no idea what it was like, goin' through all that, tryin' to accept that you were dead and gone," Murdock shot at him. "An' don't think it was all over in the first few years either. I _still _think about it. And when I think that you _weren't _really dead and gone and that you just..."

He stopped, turning away as he shook his head. It confused and infuriated him all at once. There were no words for everything he was feeling right now. "What would it've taken to call me, Alan?" he demanded. "Just to let me know you were alive. It's not like we needed to do a whole family reunion, just... to tell me you were still breathin'!"

"I'm sorry."

_Bullshit._ "Yeah, well, sometimes sorry ain't good enough." Especially when it wasn't sincere.

Alan took another swallow of beer and looked away. Murdock shut his eyes and breathed slowly, remembering why he'd come out here in the first place. Once he'd had a few minutes to compose himself, he spoke again, picking up where he left off. "But I guess in this case, sorry's all I'm gon' get," he said quietly. "So I guess I'm gon' have to make do. Just don't go thinkin' like everything's all peachy keen between us 'cause I still got a lot of stuff to work through in my head 'fore I'm okay with this."

Alan nodded once, definitively. "Sounds fair 'nuff."

"And _don't _call me Mark." Murdock rolled his eyes. "Jesus, I hate that name."

Alan chuckled.

"An' I sure as hell don't wanna have to explain it to any more of my team. 'Least not any more than you'd like to explain why you got a different last name from me." The threat was only implied, but Alan's nod made it clear that he understood. "So let's just leave Pandora's Box to stay the hell shut, got it? I go by Murdock, you go by Alan."

"Alright," Alan granted with a smirk. "Don't see why not."

"Good."

In the silence that followed, Murdock very slowly, very cautiously sat down in the chair beside Alan. He watched the dew burn off the grass as his mind wandered. Before long, he was absently testing out the theory that bad girls in songs were always called "Judy". Al Green had a song about Judy. So did Elvis. Then there was "Judy in Disguise" with the lemonade pies and the new car… He never did like that song.

"So who's your girlfriend?"

The question snapped him back to reality instantly, and his eyes narrowed until he was glaring daggers at the damp grass. "Her name is Kelly and you leave her alone."

Alan laughed. "Just a little defensive, ain't cha?"

"Not defensive - protective," Murdock answered. "There's a difference." He looked at Alan with a wary, cautious gaze. "And I mean it; you leave her alone."

"What're you afraid of?"

"She's a real sweet girl, Alan. An' you ain't a particularly sweet guy."

Again, Alan chuckled. "I wouldn't hurt yer girlfriend, Murdock."

"Oh, I know you wouldn't hurt her," he answered confidently. "You'd have to be real stupid to do that. But you just leave her the hell alone."

Alan laughed. He seemed to find this whole warning hilarious. Murdock was not laughing. He was dead serious about what he was saying, and Alan had better recognize that.

"I mean it, Alan. I don't want you _around _her. That's the line and don't cross it or you gon' see why my bedroom door locks from the outside."

Alan fell silent at that threat, and finished the rest of yet another beer before answering. "You know, I gotta admit," he said quietly. "All the places I thought I'd find you, I sure as hell wasn't expectin' you to be in a psych ward."

"Lotta people have written a lotta books on the effects of jungle warfare on _sane _people," Murdock reminded him. "An' I've always been a little on the crazy side."

"Maybe. But even so…"

Murdock looked away. He wasn't going to talk about this. Not now. Not with Alan.

"BA told me why you joined up with them," Alan started, trying a different topic of conversation. "Or at least when. Never thought I'd see the day when my baby brother was takin' orders from Colonel Hannibal fuckin' Smith."

Murdock could hear the snicker in his voice. "Yeah, you laugh," he mumbled cynically. "You go right ahead."

"I just think it's ironic as fuckin' hell. You run off an' join the Air Force 'cause you don't wanna be like me... an' you end up on a fuckin' SOG unit."

"Yeah, something like that," Murdock sighed.

"Hell of a lot of good all them flight lessons did you in the end."

Murdock looked away. No point in arguing. No point in debating the facts. Not with a man who was half-drunk at 7:00 in the morning. Alan – like most others – probably had no idea what their unit even _was_, much less what they did. At the time that Alan had disappeared, SOG operations were still relatively new. Even at the end of the war, they had been kept pretty quiet for political and strategic reasons. Since then, there hadn't been a tremendous amount of interest in the nameless, faceless soldiers – many of whom had died without recognition. The real story of their deaths had too often been covered for the safety of those still living. Murdock's vision blurred out of focus as he considered that.

"So they ever teach you how to shoot a real weapon?"

Murdock rolled his eyes as he came back to the present in time to catch the snide remark. "Oh, don't give me that shit."

Alan laughed like a madman, and Murdock paused to let him revel in it for a few seconds before continuing. "And for the record, I will have you know that I outrank you by quite a bit, Sergeant." He spat out the title as if it were a curse word.

"Oh yeah? What'd you end up as, anyway?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but didn't have a chance before the door opened and Hannibal stepped out into the cool morning air. "Morning, Captain."

Alan's jaw dropped, and Murdock felt a twinge of sadistic satisfaction as he answered. "Mornin', Colonel."

"No way, for real?" Alan stammered. Clearly, the alcohol had had some effect on him; he was unable to hide his surprise.

Hannibal walked to the post of the porch and leaned on it, arms crossed. Already, there was a cigar between his teeth - his first of the morning. But at least _he_ wasn't topping it off with booze. His eyes lingered for a moment on the beer at Alan's feet. "Glad to see you two getting along so well."

Murdock scowled.

"Don't suppose we could actually have that conversation now about what you're doing here and what it is you want?"

The door opened again as BA stepped out, footsteps heavy on the wooden planks of the porch. Murdock watched him, then shifted his eyes back to Hannibal with a smile. "I believe all the prerequisite bullshitting has commenced," he declared, tilting his chair back. "So I guess whenever you're ready, I'm ready."


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

**1985**

"Face? Get out here."

Face appeared a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and his hair sticking every which way, still wet from a shower. Murdock smirked, debating whether or not to make some kind of comment, but Alan was talking before he had a really good one. He saved it for another time.

"Alright, Sergeant Parker," Hannibal started. "You were about to tell us why you came all this way just to find us."

Alan hesitated for a moment, eyes down as if debating how and where to start. "Like I said before," he finally sighed, "I don't remember anything between the escape and being in Saigon. It must've been… at least a month or two, but I have no idea what happened during that time. I met up with Bach Yen and she had our daughter. We got married but life was… difficult. I was an American, she was considered a traitor, our daughter an outsider. After a few years of this, when Bach Yen got pregnant a second time, we came to the States and moved to Lukeville, Arizona – just north of the Mexican border."

He paused for a long moment and lowered his eyes. Probably instinctively, he reached down to replace his empty bottle with a new one. But they were all empty. He'd finished the entire six pack before breakfast. "You've gotta understand," he continued, eyes shifting nervously. "I had no skills... no degree... and there were no jobs. We settled in a little town under fake names with some papers we bought off a guy in San Francisco."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "How did you get into the country without papers?"

"On a ship."

Face raised a brow. "Stowaways?" he asked skeptically.

"No, crew." Alan lowered his head. "We also paid them. A lot. The agreement worked out well for all of us." He glanced up again. "But I couldn't get work once we got here. I couldn't get a start. There was nowhere for us to go."

Hannibal sighed. "So what'd you get into - drugs, guns, or murder for hire?"

Murdock raised a brow, surprised that Hannibal had been willing to make that call when they still knew so little. True, everyone had a sob story. But not everyone, or even _most_ of the returning vets, turned to crime. But Hannibal's instincts had been dead-on once again. Murdock knew it before Alan answered, and he shut his eyes as he breathed deep and slow, making every effort to keep his blood pressure down.

"Actually, it was cars," Alan answered quietly.

"Cars?" Face asked, brows raised.

Alan sighed. "There was a team of us. We stole cars, drove them across the border, and the guy sold them to foreign markets."

"You were stealin' cars?" BA was clearly disgusted.

"Look, I knew it was wrong. But my family was starving. I couldn't get work. The only skills I had were for hot-wiring cars and killin' VC!"

"Okay, so you started stealing cars," Hannibal redirected him. "For who?"

Again, Alan sighed deeply. "A man named Sam Corrolini. I drove the cars in, dropped them off, and walked away with ten percent of their market value. It was a lucrative business."

"So what went wrong?" Hannibal asked.

"Corrolini got an order from some big shot in Venezuela. The cars he wanted, three of them, were difficult to find… and even harder to boost. When we hit our deadline, we only had two of the cars." He glanced around at the men who were all watching him intently, waiting for more of his explanation. "The other guys split as soon as they realized we weren't going to make the deadline. Probably headed up into Canada if I had to guess. They didn't have families. But I did, and I knew they would be in danger."

"Why?" Face questioned. "Going after your family would only bring the police down on him and his whole car operation."

"He's not the kind of guy to care about things like that."

Face and Hannibal exchanged skeptical glances. Neither one of them were sure just how much of this to buy. "So why didn't you _and _your family get out?" Hannibal challenged, folding his arms over his chest.

"There wasn't time. I tried to call my wife, over and over, but I couldn't get an answer. By the time I got back to Arizona – I was up in Minneapolis – they'd come looking for me." He took a deep breath, almost losing his composure. "They took my daughter. And they killed my wife."

"Again," Face said. "Why? Seems a little risky."

Alan sighed deeply, reflectively. "Bach Yen was always a little feisty. I imagine the plan was probably to take them both and use them as leverage. But she wouldn't have gone quietly. It probably got her killed."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" BA demanded.

"I didn't have to," Alan sighed. "They were already there, sitting in the driveway." He shook his head, leaning forward and holding it in his hands. "I ran. I didn't know what to do."

"Running was probably not your best bet," Face pointed out. "The cops might have actually been able to _help _you."

"You gotta understand," Alan justified, looking up again. "My fingerprints are on file 'cause of the Army. They know who I am, and they know I was in that house. They think I killed Bach Yen." He lowered his voice until it was almost inaudible. "And missing persons is looking for my daughter. They think I kidnapped her."

"Well, maybe you'd better set 'em straight," Murdock suggested.

"And tell them what?" he cried. "That I've been living under some stolen identity I picked up in Frisco?"

"They probably already know about the stolen identity," Face said. "If they were in your house, surely they must've seen photos or something."

"So, what? I tell them that I know who's got my daughter 'cause I was a boosting cars for the guy?"

"Sounds like you're more concerned about doing a few years jail time than finding your daughter," Hannibal mused.

Alan glared at him. "Even if they believed me, they couldn't touch Corrolini. At least not before he killed my daughter."

"Why is that?"

"He's across the Mexican border. By the time the cops and the FBI got through all the bureaucratic bullshit to even go search the place, he'd know they were coming. And if he thinks they'll show up before I do, he won't keep her alive."

"Look, I know this probably isn't exactly what you want to hear," Face sighed, "but what makes you think she's not dead already?"

Alan lowered his head. "I don't know for sure that she's not. But until I see her body, I'm not giving up on her."

Eyes lowered. It was a familiar sentiment to all of them – one that none of them would argue with.

"They ever make a ransom demand?" Hannibal questioned after a long silence.

"No," Alan sighed, then reconsidered. "I don't know. If they did, I wasn't there to get it. Maybe the police did. Look, guys..." He leaned forward a little, doing his best attempt to persuade them. "I don't have money. I don't have _anything _to offer you. I got nothin' in the world 'cept that little girl. An' I just wanna know she's safe."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, then glanced over at his team. He needed to talk to them. "Give us a minute Sergeant?"

Alan looked up, confused, then noticed the glances. With some hesitation, he rose to his feet and walked to the door, disappearing into the cabin. "Murdock?" Hannibal asked as soon as the door closed. "What do you say?"

Murdock's eyes drifted to Hannibal, but his head remained down. He shrugged. "I say it sounds like the same kinda thing we done a thousand times before," he answered coldly. "Got as good a reason as ever to do it this time."

"You believe him, then?" Face asked.

Murdock glanced through the window to where Alan was pacing in the living room. He sighed. "I don't think he'd lie about something like this."

"Why not?" Face's tone was dry. "His track record certainly leans toward the possibility."

"I don't think he would've come here if he didn't have a damn good reason," Murdock replied. He glanced up at Hannibal. "He needs help."

"You trust him?" Hannibal asked.

"I do know he got a girl pregnant in Vietnam. And I can believe he would've gotten himself into trouble stealing cars. If you want my gut, I think he's telling the truth."

"But do you _trust _him?"

Murdock held Hannibal's gaze for a long moment, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know," he admitted quietly.

"Face?"

Face offered a shrug as Hannibal turned to him. "If he's telling the truth, Murdock's right. It's the same kind of thing we've done a thousand times before."

"BA?"

"If they got a little girl hostage, I'm all for gettin' her out."

"She's probably not that little," Murdock said quietly. "It was seventeen years ago that Alan knocked that girl up."

"Sergeant!"

Alan appeared a moment later, stepping back onto the porch. "If we agree to help you," Hannibal said flatly, "that still leaves you with the problem of what you intend to _do _with her when you get her back. You're a wanted man. If you don't sort out your problems with the authorities -"

"I'll do whatever I have to do," Alan interrupted. "But I want to see her first. I want to know she's safe."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, evaluating the sincerity and worry written on the younger man's face. Finally, he nodded. "Alright then, let's pack up," Hannibal ordered. "We'll drop Kelly off at the bus station and head down to Arizona."

The group scattered, immediately setting about the task of getting ready to leave. Hannibal paused at the door and turned back to the man who was gathering the empty bottles around the chair. "And just to be clear," Hannibal warned, "you've got exactly one hour before we leave to sober up so I'd go make some really strong coffee, if I were you. From here on out, I catch you with so much as a wine cooler in your hand and you'll be walking home. _Without _your daughter. Think about that before you crack open another bottle."

Alan nodded slowly, mutely.

"We'll leave at 0900," Hannibal informed him as he disappeared into the cabin. "Be ready."

**1969**

At exactly 0900 hours, Colonel Smith entered the TOC to find a small crowd waiting. Aside from the team that had dropped into A Shau, there were five others that Murdock did not know – all Yards. Murdock was perhaps a bit more awake than the rest of them; a bit more panicked at the prospect of having to fly when his senses weren't entirely engaged. Luckily, the adrenaline was doing a fantastic job of countering the effects of the alcohol.

"Alright." Colonel Smith took charge the instant he'd closed the door behind him and Murdock sat up a little straighter. Smith walked directly toward him, and he prepared himself for an inspection to see whether or not he'd sobered up. But Smith seemed uninterested in that, as if he'd completely forgotten the "sobering process" that had begun only an hour before. Murdock blinked in surprise as he was suddenly handed a razor knife.

"All of your patches need to come off your uniform."

Murdock's eyes widened a bit. "Sir?"

But the colonel didn't repeat himself. Instead, he held out his other hand, palm up. "I'll also need your dog tags and any other personal identification you have on you."

After a moment of hesitation, Murdock handed over his tags. He could feel the eyes on him, an almost disinterested audience who was here for the details of their mission. It didn't have them on the edge of their seats, that was for damn sure. They were relaxed and calm. Both Harrison and Brenner had lit up cigarettes and were leaning their chairs back against the cement walls of the underground bunker.

Murdock sat up a little straighter as Smith began pulling back the big black sheet labeled "top secret" and secured it to the side. He studied the map underneath. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing, and he didn't like it - the map of Laos with little pin flags marking places with names like "Death Trap", "Murder Hill", and "Baby Killer". He realized as he stared at the map that he was now part of something clandestine and extraordinary. The President of the United States had repeatedly and vehemently denied any military operations in Laos or Cambodia. This map said otherwise.

"Are those landing zones?" he asked, hazarding a question before Smith got into the details.

"Yep," Harrison confirmed. "Where we goin' today, Hannibal?"

Unlike the last mission into A Shau, Murdock was briefed right along with the rest of the team this time. He knew the details of the assignment, and he knew just how dangerous it was before he ever went in. He would be dropping them off deep inside of the no-man's-land jungle of Laos. He would be on standby to pick them up at any time. He would be flying back – probably into a hot area – to pull them out.

Once Smith had said all he had to say, he asked if there were any questions. Murdock had a million of them, but none of them were specific to the drop at hand so he kept them to himself. Nobody else said anything, and Hannibal dismissed his team.

"Murdock, wait a minute."

Murdock closed his eyes and took in a breath before turning back, waiting for the others leave and it was just him and Smith in the room. Now the ass chewing would commence, he was sure. But Smith remained almost passive as he dropped the cover back over the maps and reached into his pocket for a cigar. "A few things you should know before you go out there," he started, his tone calm and even.

Murdock immediately braced himself for a very different kind of conversation than he'd been expecting. "Alright…"

Smith hesitated for a moment. "As far as the United States government is concerned, you no longer exist. If you crash, it's your responsibility and yours alone, to find your way into friendly hands. There will be no rescue attempt. The most you'll get is a fly-over, or – if it happens in the target LZ – a chance to rendezvous with the team that'll be sent out to replace us. If you go down and you don't make it back, you will be listed as MIA somewhere inside of South Vietnam."

Murdock nodded, processing this very slowly. Hannibal gave him a few moments before continuing. "I don't need to remind you what 'top secret' means, do I, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," he answered quietly.

"Just to make sure we're on the same page, if you talk to anyone – and I do mean anyone, friend or enemy – about these missions, you will be court-martialed for treason," Smith reminded him. "For now, you will be allowed to write one last letter back to your family in the States to explain why you will not be writing any more letters for a while. And it will have to pass a censor, so keep it clean."

"I don't have any family to write to, sir."

"Well, then, that makes it easy."

Smith started to the door and Murdock followed a half step behind, still listening as the colonel continued. "Once you drop us off, you're on-call for pickup until we're extracted. I'll be speaking with the commander at whatever FOB we run out of to make sure we're clear on that. Whatever base or camp we fly out of for a particular mission. I suggest you make sure that your chopper is ready to crank at any moment, because you may not have time for a pre-flight if we call for an emergency extraction. If you're not at the base when we call, you'd better be in the air and en-route. We won't have a lot of time to wait for you."

"How much trouble do you guys run into on these missions?" Murdock asked hesitantly.

"Personally?" Finally, Smith lit the cigar he'd been chewing. "I haven't lost a man in five missions. That's a record. Sometimes an entire team goes MIA after an insert. Or in the chopper on the way out to one."

"You don't maintain radio contact?" Murdock questioned, surprised.

"We check in with the FAC in the morning and evening. But the only thing you'll hear from us is a request for an extraction."

"What about in the chopper?" He was careful not to let his uneasiness show. "Who will I be in contact with?"

"Usually, you'll have an escort plane – a Birddog or Skyraider, most likely – and you'll be in communication with them."

"And Covey?"

"Once you leave the base, the FAC is your highest and only authority." Smith gave a slight smirk, a look that made Murdock even more unsure. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. Your chances of running into any other aircraft out there will be pretty damn slim. Not too many people fly where we're going."

Murdock wasn't sure if that was supposed to make him feel better. If it was, the effort had failed miserably. But he didn't let it show. He simply nodded, and braced himself for the mission that was to follow.

**1985**

"You be careful, okay?"

"I will." Murdock tucked Kelly's hair back behind her ear and kissed her forehead once more. "Always am."

"When should I start worrying if I don't hear from you? Next week?"

Murdock chuckled a little under his breath, and glanced at the bus as the other passengers boarded. It would take her to the airport, and then a plane would take her home. She only knew the vague outline of where he was headed - somewhere in Arizona to try and help his brother find his "lost" daughter. Murdock didn't feel the need to worry her with details. Someday, she would ask and then he would have to tell her. But not today.

"I'll call you in a few days if I'm not back. Really, though, don't worry about me." He trailed his fingers along her jaw, and kissed her lips once more, briefly, before nodding to the bus. "Go on. Looks like they're 'bout ready to pull out."

She smiled as she pulled away, shifting her purse over her shoulder and holding his hand until she was out of reach. Then she turned and quickly crossed the few steps to the bus. She hopped up the stairs just before the door closed behind her and Murdock forced a smile as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Come on, Murdock!"

The call from behind him made him turn. And once he turned and headed for the van, he didn't look back.

**1969**

"Come on, Murdock!"

They hadn't even pulled the skids off the ground and already Murdock was feeling very out of place. Even knowing what was happening here, he was lagging behind. But he had to do a pre-flight check. He'd never even flown in this bird before. On a positive note, he had a copilot, a maintenance engineer, and a gunner this time. It gave him just a little bit of comfort.

"Trust me, this bird's in top shape," the crew chief said, hurrying him through his inspection. "There ain't nowhere to stop for repairs where we're goin'."

Murdock suspected that he was supposed to just take this guy's word for it. But not only did that violate everything he'd ever been taught, it went against his personal sense of well-being. He didn't know the chief any better than he knew the bird, and he didn't trust either until they'd passed his own inspection.

"All clear, Murdock! Let's go!"

"What's the matter, BA, you got a date?"

Murdock ignored the voices from the back of the chopper as he finally gave the signal to crank.

"I wanna get as far as we can before it gets dark tonight. You got a problem with that?"

"No, no problem."

Murdock didn't know any of them well enough to identify who was saying what. He hadn't really had a chance for any kind of formalities with any of the Americans who constituted his flight crew. Still, even not knowing them, he was thrilled to have them. All he had to do was navigate and supervise. Given the splitting headache he had, and the nausea that was still making him swoon, he was glad that he didn't have to be at the controls. The peter pilot could do most of the flying.

He opened his map case and looked at the coordinates and radio frequency that had been written out for him. Eyes plotting their destination on the map, he tuned the VHF radio, glancing up as he neared their frequency. Then he grabbed the mic. "Howlin' Mad One-Niner is off the pad at 0826," he informed the control center. A slight smirk crossed his lips. "Pressure 30.14, dew point 39, and it is a beautiful 46 degrees Celsius. How about that heat index, huh?"

"Copy One-Niner," the voice came back. "You're clear for departure."

"Thanks much." Glancing up, he flipped to the UHF radio. "Fire Horse, Howlin' Mad One-Niner off the pad for Alpha, Charlie, Romeo. Request you stay with us."

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, Radar Contact. You're off the pit heading 060 and stand by."

"One-Niner, roger." A quick gesture, and the copilot started forward.

"Fire Horse to One-Niner heading two-four-zero. Say altitude?"

"Climbing to 2000. Over."

"Fire Horse acknowledge. Have fun out there."

"Always."

He breathed deep as he took the map of Laos into his lap and stared at it. He was heading into dangerous territory.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**1985**

"_Segodnya ya govoryu tol'ko na russkom yazyke_."

Alan stared at the man seated across the table from him as if he'd just grown another head. "What?" He couldn't even identify the language, much less what Murdock had just said.

But if that bothered Murdock, he had a funny way of showing it. He smiled broadly as he gestured in the air. "_Ya dumayu, chto eto byla by zabava._"

Alan looked to Face, who just so happened to be the first one his gaze found. "What's he saying?"

Face shrugged. "Beats me," he answered, smiling at the waitress as she approached.

After they'd taken Kelly to the bus station, they'd immediately started heading south. Four hours later, they were stopped for lunch. Murdock hadn't said a damn thing since Kelly had boarded the train. Now he was talking gibberish. Alan didn't know what to think about that. Or what to think about the fact that nobody else seemed to think it was strange. Except for a brief glare from BA, he'd hardly been acknowledged by the rest of his team.

"What can I get you boys to drink?"

"Coffee, please," Face answered her.

"_Sdelayte vy_ _imeete_ _molochnye kokteyli_?"

The waitress stared at Murdock, searching for words. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

"He'll have a glass of milk," Hannibal answered for him, not looking up from the menu he was studying.

"Same here," BA declared.

"And you, sir?"

Alan realized the question was directed at him. "Oh. Uh. Coffee. Thanks."

"I just want water," Hannibal stated.

"Alright, I'll be right back," the waitress answered cheerfully as she turned away.

Another nonsensical question from Murdock to Hannibal, and Alan looked to see if he would respond. He didn't. BA – who was apparently familiar with this game – had little patience to spare for the unintelligible speech. "You wanna talk?" he snapped. "Talk English. Or don't talk at all. Nobody can understand you, fool!"

Alan stared at BA for a moment, then across at Murdock. "_Ya ne mogu ponyat' vas_," Murdock declared with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What language is that?" Alan asked, confused. He was looking at Murdock for an answer, but receiving only a blank stare. "Is that Russian? When did you learn Russian?"

Murdock sat blinking at him in confusion for a few seconds, then leaned forward. He gestured with his hands as he spoke loudly and simply with a thick Russian accent. "I no speak the English," he declared. "Speak only Russian."

"Oh, well that's convenient," Face observed with the same casual dismissal as before. He, too, seemed more interested in the menu. "Except that none of _us _speak Russian."

"You're going to need a translator, Murdock," Hannibal suggested.

Face rolled his eyes, but didn't look up. Alan watched, stunned and confused, as Murdock's face lit up with a wide grin. "_Eto pokhodit na razvlechenie!_" Then, like an actor in a screenplay, Murdock straightened in his chair and held his head up as he continued in a new persona. "He asks –" this one spoke with a British accent, "if you would prefer another language? He is fluent in many languages, you know."

"How 'bout English!" BA shot. It sounded like a little more than a suggestion.

If Alan didn't know better, from the way that Murdock slipped back into his "Russian speaking self," he might have actually wondered if his brother had developed some kind of split personality. He continued to stare as Murdock rambled more gibberish that "the translator" deciphered. "Murdock says he is bored with English," he declared formally. "Any other suggestions? Anyone? Anyone?"

"Sorry, Murdock, I'm going to have to go with BA on this one," Face declared. "English is our official language, boring or not."

Murdock cast a glance at Hannibal, but got no support there, either. Only a shrug. After a quick roll of his eyes, Murdock looked back at Face, letting both "personalities" drop. "Oh, come on. What other languages _do _you know, anyways?" He glanced up briefly as the waitress returned and transferred the drinks from the tray to the table, one at a time. "I know you were required to take classes in the Army. What'd you study?"

"French," Face smiled politely. "Which I happen to know you _don't_ speak."

"What about in school? Didn't you ever study a foreign language in school?"

"Latin," Face replied. "Which you also don't speak."

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Oooh, Latin!"

For a moment, it seemed as if Face genuinely feared that Murdock would break out in a Latin soliloquy. But instead, Murdock only cast a wicked grin as he leaned back out of the way to allow the waitress to set his glass in front of him. "I don't know Latin," he answered. "How 'bout pig Latin? Do you know pig Latin?"

Face rolled his eyes. "If I say no, would that deter you in the slightest?"

"Oh-nay I-ay on't-day ink-they it-ay ould-way."

BA growled. Alan stared. Face shook his head. And Hannibal looked up at the waitress with a smile. "How's the grilled chicken?"

**1969**

In the three months since Murdock had joined Hannibal Smith's team, he had redefined the term "impossible". He'd also redefined his concept of insanity. From day one, he'd taken insane risks if it meant getting even one American out of a red LZ alive; it was what had earned him his nickname – "Howlin' Mad". But Hannibal didn't just drop into red landing zones. He made them red – quite literally, in fact – if he thought he had a chance of taking out a few of the commie bastards before getting his men out alive. Now Murdock understood why Hannibal's team had a kill ratio that was legendary.

Hannibal also had a habit of pulling some of the most dangerous assignments, often into areas where "plausible deniability" was a key term. In three months, Murdock had dropped his team into Cambodia four times, into Laos twice, and into North Vietnam three times. Their assignments, often orchestrated by Hannibal himself, came so fast and furious, he wondered how they kept up – or more importantly, how they kept alive.

For Murdock, it was no trouble. He dropped them into enemy territory, returned to base, and spent the next five days waiting. No more than five days after any drop, he returned to pick up "his" team. Five days was about all that any SOG unit could take in the field, he'd learned. He had never been in a situation anything like what they undoubtedly went through down there, but he'd been in on enough of their conversations to understand it. Five days without any real sleep, senses on extreme alert, dodging enemy soldiers and covering every footstep behind them… It was exhausting. When they came back, they invariably slept for twelve to fourteen hours straight, spent a few hours drinking and laughing in the NCO club, slept another ten hours… then promptly began preparing for another assignment.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this was unusual. Normally, the SOG units had several days or even weeks between assignments. Normally, they did a six month rotation in which every member was wounded at least once, or KIA. But Hannibal's team had survived well into the fifth month with only minor injuries to the Americans and few dead Yards.

They had survived long enough to take in a new teammate as well: Bill "Bulldog" Tawney, a PFC with only minimal experience in Special Ops. Hannibal had been reluctant to take him, but the order had come from Westman himself. He wanted Bulldog to learn from the best. The assignment probably also had something to do with the fact that Ray "Boston" Brenner was getting short, and unlike the rest of them, he had a wife back in the States. He would be going home just as soon as he was released.

Whether because they were in high demand as General Westman's personal favorite, or simply because of Hannibal's restlessness, the team that Murdock was assigned to barely ever had time to catch their breath between assignments. Hannibal was presently detailing one such assignment. This one had a particularly interesting twist to it.

"Are you serious?" Face was staring at the team's one-zero incredulously.

Hannibal smiled around his cigar and waggled his eyebrows a few times. "Neat idea, huh?"

All around the room, everyone who'd actually understood him was staring with jaws dropped – including the translator, who'd not yet managed to find words in the Yards' native language to explain the insanity he'd just heard. When he did, the unintelligible words were immediately followed by cries of surprise. Murdock had not had enough time with the Yards to learn even the basics of their language, but he was sure that the string of fast-spoken words included such things as "insane", "out of their minds", and probably a few expletives to boot.

"What are they expecting us to do?" Ray "Boston" Brenner finally managed, still stunned.

"They're expecting us to take pictures," Hannibal explained. "Maps, mission plans, debriefing reports." He grinned again. "They were non-specific as to how they want us to get all of it."

Murdock was still trying to find words.

"So are we supposed to just walk right up to the front gate of COSVN and knock?" Face asked, brows raised.

"Sounds like a suicide mission, Colonel," Murdock said seriously. He was slowly realizing the magnitude of what they were being asked to do, and he was genuinely concerned for the welfare of his team.

SOG units had long ago determined that the Viet Cong's overall headquarters, the Central Office for South Vietnam (COSVN), was actually in Cambodia – in an area near Loc Ninh called the Fishhook. The area was so named because it protruded ten miles into South Vietnam – a perfect place for them to set up shop. Diplomatic bullshit had strictly forbidden any venture into Cambodia, and any and all recon missions there had to be "sterile" – no insignia, no dog tags, and no American-made clothes or cigarettes.

"It'd be suicide even if it wasn't over in Cambodia!" Bulldog added.

"Where we're not even supposed to be," Cruiser finished.

"Well, I guess that's why we were chosen," Hannibal smiled. "Don't you think?"

The entire team exchanged glances. The horrified look on every single one of the Yards' faces was even greater than the Green Berets'. BA was the first to pull it together.

"You'd better have a plan, Hannibal," he started. "You'd better have a really good plan."

"Yeah, and not just for how we're going to get in," Face added. "We need an escape plan, too."

Murdock had nothing productive to add to the conversation. Instead, he just stared. Somebody had to be out of their mind to even think up a mission like this. Aside from the obvious risk, the place was probably a fortress. There was no way in hell they'd get in.

**1985**

"I know exactly where it is," Alan explained. "But there's no way in hell you'll get in."

"How big of a fortress are we talking about?" Face asked as they pulled away from the diner and headed south, down the state highway.

"It's a mansion situated on a huge plot of land, just across the border."

"How huge?" Hannibal demanded.

Alan shook his head. "It's gotta be about ten square miles. Most of it's wooded. There's three gates. The first one is all you can see from the road. The second is another two miles in. The third one is at least a mile past that." He looked around. "The road in is paved, but it's real narrow. Two cars can't pass at the same time."

"I'm assuming that there's a wall to go with those gates?" Hannibal questioned.

"It's an eight-foot wrought iron fence," Alan clarified.

Murdock's eyes widened. "Around ten square miles of land?" he asked in disbelief.

"There's three fences, actually," Alan corrected. "The second one is topped with barbed wire. The third with razor wire. Corrolini likes his privacy."

"Hey, if you don't mind me asking," Face started, "why all the security?" He glanced at Alan questioningly. "Sounds like they've got more to hide than some stolen cars."

"You don't understand," Alan sighed. "These aren't just 'some stolen cars'. These are _priceless _cars."

"Well, they can't be too unique," Murdock pointed out. "The one problem with stealing the Mona Lisa is finding a buyer who's willing to pay for something they can never show off to their friends."

Face nodded. "He's right. Black market value goes _down _with rarity."

"Where are these buyers coming from?" Hannibal asked.

"I don't know exactly," Alan admitted. "I know most of the cars go down to South America. He doesn't ship them overseas. But once I drop them off at the compound… anything else I know is just hearsay."

"Still seems a bit over the top," Face muttered.

"Well, I have no idea what else Corrolini might be into." Alan shrugged. "I never asked. This is not a guy you fuck around with, know what I mean?" He laughed, without humor, emphasizing his point. "I do know that the one time I was there when one of his clients showed up, they came in a limo with a five-car escort. I never got a good look at the guy, but he definitely wasn't your run-of-the-mill bad guy lookin' for a good deal on the black market."

"Sounds like a pretty big operation," Hannibal concluded. "How did you get in on an op like that?"

"I grew up with two of the guys I worked with. They pulled me in for a few trial runs. I did well, so they got permission to bring me onboard more permanently."

"Man, how'd you get so good at stealin' cars?" BA demanded. There was clearly disappointment in his voice. "I never took you for a thief."

Alan chuckled. "Stealin' cars was how I got sent over to 'Nam in the first place. My probation officer told me next time I got caught, he was movin' me to the head of the draft. And since we both knew I _would _get caught again, if I wanted any say about _how _I went over, I'd better sign up on my own." He smirked a little. "I went down to the Army recruiter the next morning."

Murdock's eyes were fixed firmly on one of the raised dots on the interior wall of the van, ignoring this part of the conversation. None of this was new to him. Alan's first run-in with the law had been at the age of fifteen, for a joyride he and his significantly older friends took in a brand new Ford Thunderbird. It happened to belong to the mayor of their small town. It was the first of many times he would stand before a judge to explain his stupidity. When he hit eighteen, and it came time that he would be tried as an adult for the crimes he kept repeating – most of them involving cars in some capacity or another - he'd joined the Army. That was just two months before Murdock signed his name on the dotted line for the Air Force.

Murdock's eyes slid closed as he considered that. It was something he hadn't thought about in years; there was no point in dwelling on it. The single most influential decision in his life had, in fact, been a reaction to his brother. Alan was absolutely right about that. The ongoing rivalry between brothers near enough in age to be mistaken for twins had culminated in a standoff. Who would have the fuller and more rewarding life? Whose lifestyle would be more profitable in the end? Whoever dies with the most toys wins.

Whoever died last got bonus points.

**1969**

Murdock had dropped his team off in the Fishhook, then returned to the base, refueled the UH-1F, and waited. He hated the waiting. He couldn't leave the base, in case his team needed him. But that meant if everything went well – and of course, he hoped it did – that he didn't have a damn thing to do for the next five days. This time, he had a slight advantage, as he found himself back in the now-rare and always pleasant company of the US Air Force at Ban Me Thout – the very base he had been stationed at before Hannibal had taken him in.

"You really got assigned to a specific SOG unit?" Murdock didn't really know the man who was asking the question, but he understood the skepticism in his voice.

"Yeah, crazy huh?"

"Hey!" Every head turned as a man in green fatigues burst through the flap of the tent, looking around quickly. Murdock recognized him as Specialist Murphy. "Anyone with orders for RT Cannon needs to get back out there! FAC says they're in trouble!"

Murdock was out of his chair quickly at the mention of his unit, and out to the rows of choppers even quicker. His pre-flight check took all of two minutes, and he was in the air long before the others lifted on either side. His co-pilot, a man he'd never flown with before, had barely strapped himself in when Murdock lifted the skids off the ground, calling back for a clear almost as an afterthought. In seconds, he was headed into the dead air above the thick jungle. Before the other choppers – two more like his gunship and two troopships - began moving forward, he was already a good distance ahead of them.

"Hey Howlin' Mad, you're not anxious to get out there, are you?"

Without thought, he clicked the intercom mic. "Nah, I just do this for fun," he answered his gunner. Tim Jacobs was a man Murdock had worked with several times before Hannibal had arranged for his reassignment.

"This gonna be a solo kinda mission?" Tim asked.

Murdock frowned. "Nah, they'll catch up."

The other choppers wouldn't catch up unless he slowed down, and he knew it. But he wasn't immediately concerned about that.

If there was ever a chopper that could kick ass, it was the one he was flying. The "Green Hornets" at the 20th Special Operations Squadron had been equipped with two hand-controlled miniguns that fired six thousand rounds per minute – one on each side. They could fire during approach, while passing a target, and they could even pivot backwards to shoot after they passed. But even better than their maneuverability was their reliability. When a Green Hornet minigun jammed, the gunner put on a glove, spun the barrel to clear it, and kept right on firing. With two such guns and two capable gunners, Murdock wasn't terribly concerned about the other choppers lagging behind. Nevertheless, in keeping with good practice – and good manners – he slowed to let them catch up. Still, he remained at point of the V-formation.

RT Cannon was, indeed, in trouble. Their call for an emergency extraction had been picked up by Covey, flying high overhead in a Cessna O-2 Skymaster. Apparently, their mission had gone well at first, but they had since been backed up against a wide stream. They were cornered on three sides by advancing NVA and their only option for retreat was into the water. This would have made them wide open targets. While they'd been able to hold out so far, they were dangerously low on ammo.

Murdock and the other chopper pilots had a similar problem to their ground unit. The flight from Ban Me Thout left them with only enough fuel for a quick extraction.

"Hornets One, Two, and Three, we need to sweep," the FAC ordered. "Take out their guns if you can hit 'em."

"Roger, FAC. Hornet One, sweeping right."

"Hornet Two, sweeping left."

"Hornet Three, sweeping right."

Murdock circled right, leading the formation and the other two gunships. "They're right on the water, guys," Murdock called back to the gunners. "Let's not make this a friendly-fire kinda day."

The only answer he received was the sudden burst of rattling machine gun fire, but he knew they'd heard. He came in low, almost scraping the tops of the trees, and the gunners had a clear shot at two of the enemy's heavy machine guns. Almost simultaneously, they exploded into an impressive ball of fire.

"Hornet Two, I'm goin' down…"

Murdock glanced to the chopper making the call, and frowned. There was smoke pouring out behind it. "Gonna try'n land in that clearing over there."

"Trooper One, I'll pick him up."

Murdock circled back around, leaving the two choppers to help each other. They were both out of commission now. Trooper One would be heavy after he picked up the Hornet crew. He'd have to head back.

"Trooper Two, I'm runnin' on fumes." Murdock's eyes narrowed. Of course he was. They were all on fumes. "I'm headed back."

Murdock kept his opinion of that decision entirely to himself as he swept low again, wincing at the sound of AK rounds hitting the chopper from all directions. The NVA had set an arc of fire in front of them in an attempt to force the Green Berets into the river. The flames were already reaching into the second tier of the jungle canopy.

"Hornet Three to Hornet One."

Murdock clicked his mic twice, but was otherwise too preoccupied to respond.

"You're trailing smoke, One."

Murdock checked his gauges quickly. "I'm still go for pickup," Murdock answered firmly. "That's my team down there, Three. I ain't leavin' without 'em. Covey? Standing by."

"Hornet One, if you're still a go, you need to move along the river."

"Roger, Covey," Murdock answered. "Talk me through it."

The FAC guided Murdock through the approach at the same time that he guided the recon team on the ground to the water's edge. Full throttle, Murdock skimmed along the water, so close it parted on either side. The team should've been waiting, but the NVA had chosen that particular moment to open up with so much firepower that they were too busy shooting to run for the chopper. The right-side gunner shot over the top of them, into the trees, but it offered little relief.

Murdock couldn't see, in the dimming evening light, where the team was. All he saw was shadows, muzzle flares, and flashes of tracer rounds. Then, the call that made his blood run cold. "They got us! Get out, man! Get out!"

Reacting on instinct, Murdock pulled pitch and climbed. No longer willing to work through the middleman FAC, Murdock clicked on his mic. "Hannibal! SITREP!"

The long moment of silence instigated a momentary lapse of Murdock's necessary calm. "RT Cannon One-Zero!" he called again. "SITREP!"

"We blew them back." That wasn't Hannibal's voice. It was Cruiser's. "But we're out of claymores. We can't hold them back much longer."

"Everyone still alive down there?" Murdock glanced at his fuel gauge. He'd be damned if he turned back now, even if he wasn't sure he'd make it.

"One KIA, two wounded." Then a brief pause. "Please get us outta here, Murdock." His voice shook just slightly.

A tense smile crossed Murdock's face. "I'm there, Cruiser. Just hold on." He turned his attention back to the FAC. "One more try."

"Hornet Three," the FAC demanded, "how's your fuel?"

The other remaining gunship hesitated a moment. "I'll give 'em everything I got for one more pass… but then I've gotta pull out."

Murdock pulled in behind him as he swept in over the trees again. But instead of following, Murdock lowered to the bank. At first, he didn't see them, but the sheer number of bullets ricocheting off the surface of the water told him he was close. Then, suddenly, the right door gunner yelled, "There they are!" over the roar of the machine guns and the deafening rotor.

Murdock held the bird two feet off the ground, rock steady in spite of the incoming fire. Murdock ducked as much as he was able in the harness. The windshield shattered as it was riddled with AK bullets, and more than one RPG passed within inches of them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his team bolting for their last chance ride. Hannibal looked to be unconscious. His shirt was tied around his waist and he was draped between Cruiser and BA. Murdock didn't have time to try and pinpoint his possible injuries. _One KIA, two wounded… _Murdock's stomach tied itself in knots.

He could see the figures advancing after them, backlit by the flaming jungle, guns blazing. The NVA had set fire to the jungle behind them, forcing the Americans against the river. Brilliant, if devastating. He still hadn't gotten the clear. Only six men had been pulled in. Not counting the KIA, there should've been seven. BA was yelling. Murdock strained to hear words over the loud rattle of the chopper blades and the raking of the machine guns back and forth. Surely he couldn't think that anyone out there was going to hear him.

"Face! Come on!"

Murdock swallowed hard, his mouth dry as he watched a rocket launcher take clear aim at him. "Jacobs!" he screamed at his gunner. "Blast that motherfucker!"

But he knew the launcher was out of range before the gun even tried to turn. "I gotta go!"

"No!" Cruiser yelled at him. "You wait!"

Murdock had no choice. Face wasn't on board, and he was going to be left behind. But if Murdock didn't pull out now, they were all done for.

He pulled back from the bank, ignoring Cruiser's yells at him to wait. Cruiser didn't see the rocket launcher that had such a clear and perfect shot at him. He had to move now. With bullets slapping the water all around him and riddling the metal walls of the Huey, Murdock pulled up… and saw Face's head poke up above the bushes as he sprayed gunfire at the invisible NVA in the thick foliage behind him.

"Shit!"

"One o'clock!" the peter pilot screamed. "One o'clock!" Murdock wondered if he'd just now seen the rocket launcher. He'd almost forgotten the co-pilot was even there…

"Everyone hold on!" Murdock yelled into the intercom as he banked right so hard and so fast the chopper's overhead rotor nearly went vertical. He pulled back just in time to keep from hitting the trees, and realized that he was still alive. The rocket had missed them.

A quick glance over his shoulder saw Cruiser dropping a rope ladder. He looked up at just the right time to catch Murdock's gaze. "Take us back down!" he yelled.

Murdock nodded. He didn't have to be told twice. He dropped down, back over the water, as Face ran several long strides, dove into the water, and caught the ladder mid-stroke as the chopper breezed past. "Go! Go!"

He was up in the air in a matter of seconds, with the young lieutenant still dangling behind until the rest of the team was able to pull him in. Once they did, Cruiser stumbled to the front of the chopper and grabbed Murdock's shoulder. "You sweet motherfucker!" he yelled over the sounds of the rotor and the wind sweeping in through the broken windshield. "I could fucking kiss you!"

Murdock was smiling as he pushed the bird as hard and fast as she would go. The engine finally sputtered, out of gas, a mere hundred yards away from the base.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**1985**

"So you got permanently assigned to one SOG unit?" Alan asked, surprised and a little confused. "I didn't know they even did that."

"Normally they didn't," Hannibal answered, for Murdock.

It was actually a welcome gesture. Murdock didn't care to talk about the war on a normal day. He cared for it even less when he was sitting in the back of the van on a never-ending ride across several states, talking to someone he neither knew nor particularly trusted. Maybe once, a long time ago, he'd known the man sitting on the floor between the two back seats. But that had been a very long time ago.

"You guys worked for General Westman, didn't you?"

"Usually," Face answered. "Ultimately."

"Hey, man," BA started, "why didn't you ever make it to CCN? You'da made a good recon man."

"Eh, that patrol shit never did much for me." Alan shrugged. "And that's all SOG was, half the time. One never-ending patrol."

"Yeah, into Cambodia," Face answered, almost distastefully. "Or Laos."

Alan raised a brow. "You guys really dropped into Cambodia? You mean that wasn't just a rumor?"

"Yeah, we really did."

"Man, that's fucked up," Alan chuckled, shaking his head. "All that talk about how we weren't over there…"

"We had to be pretty careful about how we operated over there, to make it seem that way."

Murdock was losing track of the voices. He stared out the window, watching the white line on the edge of the road, letting his mind wander as the conversation continued. He only came back to it when he heard his name, and realized that Alan had posed a question. "Huh?" he asked, glancing over at him.

"Man, you ain't listenin' at all, are ya?"

Murdock turned and looked out the window again. "Not really," he admitted, disinterested.

"I was just askin' – did you have to transfer to Army? That one unit you were in was the only Air Force unit that even flew choppers in 'Nam, wasn't it?"

"The 20th Helicopter Squadron," Murdock offered. "And yes. It was."

"So did you transfer?"

Shifting a little uncomfortably, Murdock cast a quick glance across at Face's slightly concerned expression before answering. "Yeah, I did." It was more complicated than that, but he didn't feel the need to explain.

"So what were you officially, then?"

"1st Aviation Brigade," Murdock answered quietly.

Alan sneered at him. "Too pussy for Special Forces?"

The tense silence that followed that statement was thick enough to be cut with a knife. It wasn't immediately clear whether no one knew what to say or they were just waiting for Murdock to make the first move. But then, in the rearview mirrors, Murdock could see the tight jaws and dark eyes of both BA and Hannibal. Either one of them looked ready to tell Alan to step out of the vehicle and into the dry desert of Arizona. Whether or not BA would stop the van first seemed questionable. Face's look of surprise lasted a little longer before his eyes flickered with a dangerous look Murdock hadn't seen in many years. He opened his mouth, but a quick shake of Murdock's head made his jaw snap closed again. It wasn't worth it. Murdock looked out the window again.

Alan must have realized by then that he'd made a mistake, because the smile fell from his face as he realized no one was laughing. He cleared his throat, lowering his head a bit. "Nah, I'm just kiddin', man," he tried to recover. "Special Forces takes a certain kind of soldier. You're either that kind of soldier or you're not. No gettin' around it."

Alan looked to the other three Special Forces soldiers in the van for confirmation, but none of them spoke and none of them held his gaze. The silence lingered, and Alan continued uncomfortably. "I found that out the hard way," he rambled. "Saw one too many guys crack under the pressure. Guys always said, right from the beginning, always told me. You're either born with it or you ain't."

**1969**

You can't train a man for Special Forces. That's what his brother used to say. A man is either born for it, or he's not. As Murdock's eyes opened slowly, that statement was the very first thing that came to his mind. Where was he? Head throbbing and vision blurred, he slowly began to piece together his surroundings. He was in enemy territory. In the jungle. And it was eerily quiet. How had he gotten here? Five days ago, he'd dropped off his team in North Vietnam. He remembered that. He also remembered the call for the extraction. Had he picked them up? Where was he?

"Everybody okay?"

Hannibal's voice was reassuring. Murdock wasn't alone. Still, he fumbled for the seatbelt harness with shaking hands. What had just happened? What was going on? Where was he? He stopped struggling with the harness, shut his eyes, and tried to remember. So blurry. He'd lost control of the chopper. Why had he lost control? Something had gone very wrong. He remembered pulling the nose of the helicopter up to the sky… falling through the trees… What had happened to make him go down? Had they been shot? Unable to put the pieces together was, in and of itself, almost enough to initiate panic.

"Murdock?"

He jumped, spinning around to find the cargo bay empty. Hannibal was outside the chopper, down on the ground and looking up at him. The chopper was suspended, nose to the sky, a few feet up in the trees amid five-inch-thick vines. "Huh? What?"

"You okay?" Hannibal asked calmly.

Murdock swallowed hard. Was he okay? Was he hurt? He took a few seconds to evaluate, then nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Is the radio still operational?"

Murdock looked. The radio was smashed, along with the entire dashboard… and the co-pilot on his right. Murdock didn't check for a pulse. He didn't need to. Nobody could've survived that. "Jesus," he mumbled under his breath.

"Murdock!"

His head snapped back to where Hannibal was standing straight and still, just a few feet away. "Huh?"

"I need you to focus, Murdock," Hannibal said patiently. "The radio. Is it working?"

Murdock shook his head. "No. No way in hell, Colonel. It's smashed."

"Did you get out a call before we went down?"

His thoughts were so clouded, so muddled by panic, he wasn't even sure how to answer that question. He forced the racing conversation to quiet down and shut his eyes, composing himself. He'd been flying. Where had they even been going?

"I did, yes," he answered confidently. He remembered that part. He'd talked to Covey. He'd told them… that they had taken enemy fire? That they had engine trouble? What the hell had happened? Where were they?

"Then they know where to start looking for us," Hannibal concluded. "How far are we from the nearest base?"

Finally, Murdock managed to unlatch the harness that held him. He almost fell out of the chair, realizing too late just how steep the pitch was and how much the chopper leaned to the right. He grabbed his maps and his SOI - it was a court-martial offense to lose one of those - as he pulled himself up to the door and then out of the mangled chopper, jumping down to the ground. Immediately, his eyes were darting over the trees all around them. There were enemy soldiers somewhere in those trees, with AK-47s. He was not used to seeing the jungle from this angle…

"Murdock!"

"Sorry," he answered quickly, turning and unrolling the map he'd been using. He placed it up against the skid of the chopper and held one side while Hannibal held the other. Seeing the map helped to reorient him. "We're somewhere in here," he pointed. They'd taken enemy fire. He remembered the rockets… "We were right about here when we started having problems."

"Which means we can either go north to Hue or south to Da Nang," Hannibal observed.

Murdock swallowed hard as he put the map into perspective. "Da Nang is closer. Ten clicks, maybe. We're about forty-five from the DMZ."

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock saw BA climbing up into the chopper. What was he doing? "This is a river?" Hannibal asked, directing his attention back to the map.

"I wouldn't call it a river," Murdock answered. "It's a stream. I caught a few glimpses of it from the air but it's mostly covered over."

"We'll have water, then. It flows straight south."

Murdock suddenly realized that Hannibal had no intention of waiting for a rescue. He wasn't sure why that surprised him. He just hadn't thought yet about what lie ahead. Swallowing hard and pulling himself up to his full height, he determined in that moment that he was probably going to die out here… and that he was okay with that. He wasn't going to be afraid of it. Fear would only slow them down, and he would sooner put a bullet in his own head than endanger the rest of his team.

"Hannibal!" The hoarse whisper made both the team's One-Zero and the pilot turn. Face was running low, head down with a weapon tucked up against his chest as he came close. Right behind him were two Nungs with eyes wide as saucers. "We gotta move!" Face whispered. "There's NVA about a hundred yards west. They heard us come down and they've got dogs."

Murdock was unprepared for the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins. Hannibal didn't even flinch. "Where's Cruiser?"

"Right here!" Cruiser hissed back. "We got a few trackers to the north at seventy yards."

"Either of you seen?"

Both men shook their heads.

"I put a few toe poppers behind me," Face continued quickly. "But that won't hold them off."

"How many?"

"At least one platoon. Maybe two. There's a north-south trail over there. They must've been close by already."

BA poked his head out of the chopper. "There's no way I'm fixin' this radio."

"Forget it," Hannibal answered. "Grab the ammo and blow the guns. Let's go."

Murdock stared as BA ducked back inside and emerged only seconds later.

"Face, take point," Hannibal ordered. "BA, take rear guard. Murdock, you stay with me. Are you armed?"

"Standard issue Smith & Wesson .38," Murdock answered, matching Hannibal's stride as they headed into the trees.

Hannibal laughed. He actually laughed. Amazed that anyone could laugh at a time like this, Murdock stared at him. "Do you know how to fire an M-16?"

"Of course."

"Good."

Cruiser jogged up beside them and passed a gun to Hannibal, who in turn thrust it into Murdock's chest, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. It was an assault rifle. "Watch your ammo," Hannibal warned. "Don't go crazy with it." He handed him an extra two clips.

The sudden explosion behind them made Murdock's legs instantly and instinctively give out as he tried to hit the dirt. But Hannibal grabbed his arm, not slowing in the least. "Keep walking, Lieutenant."

Looking back behind him, through the trees, Murdock saw a ball of flame where the chopper had once been. As the gas tanks ignited, the plume of fiery smoke reached well above the first canopy and into the second. Hannibal hadn't been kidding when he'd given the order to "blow the guns" that were mounted in the back of the UH-1.

They walked single file, three feet apart, very quickly. Then, suddenly, a single shot from the back of the line instigated a well-rehearsed "about face" from everyone, in perfect sync. "Go to the back!" Hannibal yelled at Murdock as the line divided, half of them taking a step right and the other stepping left.

Trusting the order even more than his instinct, Murdock fled to what was now the back of the line and stood behind Face as the gunshots echoed through the trees. He couldn't see the enemy. All he could see was his own team. In three-round bursts of full-auto gunfire, BA sprayed the trees until his weapon was empty, then turned and ran down the center of the two lines as the next man repeated the same. Cries of pain and rattling return fire from AK-47s were lost in the confusion that followed.

"Run, Murdock!"

Murdock was already running.

He ran until he thought his lungs would burst, and then he ran harder. Then, suddenly, BA pulled up short. Murdock almost ran right into him. They were at the edge of the stream. Gasping for air – god damn, were these M-16s always this heavy? – Murdock leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Where…? What…?"

"Quiet!" BA ordered.

Murdock spun as he heard a sound behind him. Cruiser stepped forward, followed by two Nungs. "Why are we stopping?" Murdock whispered between gasped breaths.

"It's wide open out there," Bulldog pointed out. "Not quite as bad as a road, but still dangerous."

A second later, Hannibal approached the front of the team. Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, he looked both ways. "See anything?"

"Looks clear," BA said.

"Yeah," Bulldog agreed.

How could they tell?

"Face? Cruiser?"

"Clear," Cruiser agreed.

"Give me a second," Face gasped, still scanning the trees.

"Come on, Face," Hannibal prodded. "You're holding us up."

"Alright, yeah. It's clear."

"This river runs north-south," Hannibal stated. He pointed to one of the Nungs and directed them to go on ahead at point. The order received a nod and instant obedience. "It runs west of Da Nang. But we should be able to follow it until we get as far south as we need."

Face's eyes grew wide. "You don't really expect to follow this stream for ten or fifteen miles."

Murdock wasn't exactly sure why following the stream was such a horrific idea – other than the fact that they would be walking through the jungle - but Face and Hannibal seemed to have an understanding.

"Cruiser, let's go!"

Murdock looked back and saw Cruiser spilling white powder along their tracks. "Right behind you, Hannibal."

"Head up the rear, then. With BA."

"Fine by me."

The stream was only about two feet deep at its present point, and had a rocky bottom. They walked in the water, more quietly than quickly. About a hundred yards downstream, he saw Cruiser climb out of the water and sprinkle more white powder on the bank and a few feet into the trees. Then he returned to the creek and followed behind again.

The atmosphere had suddenly changed rather dramatically from engaging the enemy to evading them. Every man on the team seemed to know this. They moved slowly now, with the utmost precision and not a single word. Terrified of making some absurdly loud noise – like slipping and splashing into the water - Murdock watched every step he made and walked no more than two feet behind Hannibal. He could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking his collar in spite of the cool water he was knee deep in.

The pained yelp of a dog from somewhere behind them made Hannibal pause and look back, but the winding curves of the stream blocked their view of the dog. More importantly, it blocked the dog's view of them. Murdock wanted to ask what the white powder had been, but he didn't dare make a sound.

As they climbed back out of the water, more than an hour downstream, the careful precision continued into the jungle. Again Murdock found himself watching every step, but his attention was equally on the trees all around him. He hadn't seen the enemy when they had engaged before. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if Hannibal had somehow anticipated this scenario when he'd demanded that Murdock wear camo fatigues instead of the traditional flight suit. It had seemed like an insane request at first. Now, Murdock was glad for it.

He lost track of hours. It felt like they'd walked a thousand miles when Hannibal clicked his tongue against his teeth – a sound that made the whole line stop and look at him. In the dim light of the setting sun, he pointed to a small hill on their left, overgrown with thick foliage, and made a hand gesture Murdock was not familiar with. The other men seemed to understand it perfectly. As Hannibal headed to the hill, the others swept a wide perimeter, guns ready.

"Why are we stopping?" Murdock dared to whisper as he moved up alongside Hannibal. "Because unlike you," Hannibal whispered back, "we've been doing this for five days already. We need to sleep. Before we start getting sloppy."

Murdock's eyes widened. "Sleep? Here?"

"Relax, Murdock." Hannibal must have heard the fear in his voice, in spite of the fact that he was trying his damnedest to keep it suppressed. "They haven't been following us since the stream."

Hannibal chose the thickest, thorniest, most overgrown patch he could find on the side of the hill and surveyed the area around it as the team members joined him. "We're clear in the immediate area," Face informed him. Looking at him made Murdock realize just how right Hannibal had been. The man was thoroughly exhausted. Covered in sweat and dirt, his face streaked with layers of paint, he looked about ready to fall down dead.

"Plant the claymores and RON until dawn, guys. We're all a little strung out. Let's make sure to get some good rest."

**1985**

The rest stop was probably unnecessary, but BA pulled off of the road just to break the uneasy silence that had settled inside the van. As he pulled to a stop on the self-serve side of the pumps, there was still a long hesitation before anyone got out of the van. Then Hannibal left, and Murdock stepped out to allow Face and Alan to exit before he climbed back in and sat down again. BA turned to face him.

"Man, why you let him talk to you like that?" The anger in his voice was palpable.

"Let him?" Murdock replied with a self-deprecating snort of laughter. He didn't look up. "Probably the same reason I let you."

"I ain't never said nothin' like that to you!" BA nearly shouted back, indignant. "Never!"

Murdock sighed deeply, and hid his eyes behind his hand. "I know. I'm sorry."

"No one got a right to say stuff like that to you! You may be crazy, but you still a good soldier. Always were. And we all know it."

Murdock sighed again as he let his hand drop and looked out the window. "BA, stay out of it," he pleaded. "It's got nothing to do with the kind of soldier I was."

"Then why you let him say stuff like that to you?" BA demanded again. "I thought you had more respect for yourself than that! He ain't got no right!"

"Because he's my brother."

"That still don't give him no right. An' if you can't tell him that, I'm gonna do it. With this!" He held up his fist and glared over the top of it as Murdock gave a quick glance in his direction.

Murdock rolled his eyes as he looked away. "Great. You two should have a wonderful conversation. You speak the same language."

BA glared at him. "All this time we spend teachin' people to stick up for themselves, an' you just gonna sit there and let him –"

"Yes!" Murdock interrupted, bundling all of his frustration into that one word. He threw up his hands. "Yes, BA, I'm going to let him! Now why don't you just… fuel up the van so we can get outta here, huh? Please! I said to stay out of it and I meant it!"

BA didn't answer, and Murdock sighed. In the silence that followed, Murdock shook his head, and finally rested it back against the seat. "I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes closed. "I didn't mean…"

He never finished. With another sigh, he let his eyes drift to the side of the gas station, where Alan was lighting up a cigarette, wandering around in an effort to stretch his legs.

"He's half right, you know," Murdock mumbled, more to himself than BA. The anger expended, only sadness was in its place. "Not about the reason, but…" He swallowed hard, shutting his eyes. "When he joined the Army, I hated him for it. I went Air Force just to… to be something different. Be something better than him. I sure as hell never thought he'd be good enough to get into Special Forces."

"Man, what's wrong with you?" BA demanded. But the harsh tone had dropped from his voice. "You joined the military to prove you were better than your brother? You ain't gotta prove nothin' to nobody!"

"Maybe not now."

"Not ever," BA corrected. "You be who you are. You ain't gotta worry 'bout no one else."

Murdock sighed deeply and looked again out the side of the van at Alan, pacing back and forth. "You know, when I was a kid… Alan made it his purpose in life to toughen me up."

Face stepped out of the gas station and glanced around, finally heading to the side where Alan was wandering back and forth. "He used to pound the living daylights out of me," Murdock continued absently. "I spent my whole… teenage years in his shadow. The teachers loved me – a relief after they'd had to deal with him. But everybody else…"

As Face talked with Alan, Murdock looked away again. "When he joined the Army, it was all about how he was bored with life in the States, and he was heading off to the only place in the world where he could get _paid _to kill people." Murdock shook his head, half-laughing at the ridiculousness of his own words. "I didn't find out 'til years later about his parole officer scarin' him shitless with the possibility that he could get drafted and have no say about where he was going. So I did him one better. He went into infantry and I went to the Air Force Academy. Then he ends up testing so high – still don't know how the hell he pulled that off – he actually gets into Special Forces."

"Hey, man," BA answered. "You coulda done anything you wanted to do. You chose to fly a chopper. That ain't easy, or a cop out 'cause you couldn't get into Special Forces. None of us have ever thought that."

"I know," Murdock sighed.

"You coulda done Special Forces if you wanted to," BA continued, ignoring him. "You wanted to fly. An' we needed you to fly. You were good at it. You saved our lives."

Murdock sighed. He knew that, too. He also knew that explaining it to Alan would be a waste of his breath. Murdock had recognized from the moment that Alan had asked about his rank, he was going to have something to prove. Murdock outranked his older brother by a mile, so clearly that rank must not have been as difficult to achieve, or worth as much, as Alan's. As satisfying as it had been to watch the surprise on Alan's face, Murdock had known he would pay for it later.

He knew this game.

Their lifelong history of trying to outdo each other went far beyond the bounds of normal sibling rivalry. Ultimately, Murdock knew there was nothing he could say or do to gain his brother's respect – not for his accomplishments, or for the person he'd ultimately become. It didn't matter if he was a pilot or if he'd gone hardcore infantry. He would never measure up – not in Alan's eyes.

"You know," he whispered, "I still got scars from some of the shit he did to me…"

He glanced back out the window, and watched as Face accepted a cigarette before turning to walk with Alan in the opposite direction from the van. Murdock knew then that something wasn't kosher about the talk. Face hadn't smoked cigarettes since Vietnam. But rather than investigate, he looked away.

"You ain't a kid no more," BA said firmly. "He got no right to talk to you like that."

"Maybe not," Murdock sighed as he watched Face and Alan wander around to the back of the building. "But he's going to do it anyways. I can either let it get me mad, or I can ignore it. But I can't change the way he thinks."

***X*X*X***

Alan wasn't expecting an attack. And Face was fast. "What the hell, man?" Alan cried as he tipped his head back against the wall, away from the blade that was wedged under his left ear.

"I just wanted to make sure I had your attention," Face said, his voice perfectly calm. He stared his opponent straight in the eye. "And you seem like the kind of guy who listens better if he's got a good reason to."

"Well, you got my attention," Alan stammered, not struggling in the least.

"Good," Face smiled. "Because what I'm about to tell you is really important."

He eased off the pressure on the blade a little, letting Alan tip his head down until they were eye to eye. Alan let out the breath he was holding.

Face glared at him. He knew Alan's type - hardcore and proud of it. From the tattoo on his arm to the way he walked, he reeked of it. It was in the tone of his voice and the arrogant look in his eye. It was also in the way that he pushed his brother around – and Face had no words to describe just how much that pissed him off. It didn't make one bit of difference that Murdock's service had been just as significant, difficult, and dangerous as Alan's – perhaps even more so as part of the particular unit he'd served with. Alan didn't care about that. His lack of respect for Murdock, on all levels, had been evident from word one, and it was starting to get under Face's skin.

But Face could play that "hardcore" image too, when the situation called for it. Unlike Murdock, he had the proper military designation to stand on. From what little he'd seen, Alan seemed to have a certain, convoluted respect for Special Forces. Face was on his level. And he was going to listen – and respect – what Face was about to tell him.

"Listening?" Face asked calmly, still holding the knife. He suspected that it was the only thing that _really _had Alan's attention.

"Yeah…"

"I know you think your blood relation gives you certain rights," Face continued quietly. "But I don't think you realize just how much we owe your brother. There's not a goddamn thing you ever did – before, since, or during Vietnam – that Murdock didn't, couldn't, or _wouldn't _do for us. And that goes both ways. Clear?"

"Yeah."

Face stepped back, withdrawing the blade and snapping it closed again. Alan watched quietly. Touching his neck, his fingers came back tinted red with blood. It was just a scratch, but the point had been made. "You'll get the same reaction from any one of us if you ever say anything like that again," Face warned. "I know Murdock is trying to keep the peace and we respect that. We'll wait until he's not around if we ever need to have this conversation again. But next time, you won't just be talking to me."

Alan was almost surprised to find that he really didn't take personal offense at the attack. In fact, he actually felt relief - the tension that had been lingering since his slip of the tongue would dissipate now. The lines were drawn, so to speak, and Alan had no inclination whatsoever to make enemies of the only men who could help him find his daughter.

"Murdock ain't the only one who wants to keep peace," he assured.

"Good."

As Face walked away, Alan nervously finished the last of his cigarette. Then he dropped it in the dirt, stomping it out. A safe distance behind, he headed back to the van. Murdock was standing outside, his spirits seemingly lifted by the bottle of Coke in his hand. The indistinguishable chatter between Hannibal and Face was followed by a brief laugh, and a few seconds later, BA stalked back to the driver's seat from inside the store.

"Let's go!" he ordered.

"We'll need to get as close to this place as we can tonight," Hannibal added as Alan came closer. "So that we can get a good night's sleep before we go in."

Alan clapped a hand over his brother's shoulder as he passed. "You alright, Murdock?"

A tight smile answered him, and Murdock looked away.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**1969**

"You alright?"

Murdock's eyes opened wide as his entire body tensed. But he didn't move. He didn't have much room to move if he'd wanted to. As it was, the only way he'd even heard the quiet whisper was because it was right up against his ear. All nine of them had crammed into a space so small, no one could possibly think that they would fit. That was, of course, the idea. Using their rucksacks as pillows, fully dressed in their web gear, holding their weapons to their chests, they were almost piled on top of each other in the dense overgrowth.

"I'm alright," he managed to whisper back, turning his head toward the man behind him.

Before dark, Hannibal had designated which area each of his men were responsible for if they should come under attack. Each one of them had a spot in which to throw grenades, and the claymore mines had been placed before they'd lie down. Murdock's weapons knowledge was limited, but he knew that those mines were not supposed to be placed quite so close to where they were hiding. Still, he understood the reasoning. They didn't want them being found further away, and alerting the NVA trackers to their position.

"You should sleep," BA advised in a low whisper. "We ain't got much food. Which means we gonna be moving fast the next few days."

Murdock frowned. There were so many things that bothered him about that statement, he didn't know where to start. "Shouldn't we stay put?" he asked quietly. "I mean… if the rescue crew can't find us…"

"We got no way to talk to them."

"Yeah, but Covey –"

"Covey know we went down." The interruption silenced Murdock. "But he'll sweep the crash area before he send anyone in. You know that. But we ain't there, and we didn't have time to leave a sign for 'em, to let 'em know we're alive. They won't send anyone in."

"What about a Bright Light team?"

"They won't find us," Face said quietly, entering into the conversation. "Any trail we leave will be found by the NVA before the friendlies. We're on our own out here unless we happen to catch the attention of a fly-by. Now go to sleep."

Murdock swallowed hard. In other words, they would either make it to Da Nang… or they would die trying. Those were the only two realistic options. Add to that the fact that Murdock felt guilty as hell for what had happened in the chopper – even though it wasn't his fault. All things considered, he'd actually landed the chopper beautifully. They all could've easily been killed if not for his reflexes.

He was certain that he'd only closed his eyes for a moment. The memory of the crash was still imprinted on his mind when he felt someone shaking him awake. "Up and at 'em, Murdock." He blinked a few times, startled, and realized that all of the men were moving, climbing out of their hiding place to greet the dim grey morning. Unlike sunrises in the States, Murdock knew from experience that once the sun came up, it would be almost instant daylight.

Breakfast was as quick and as light as they could make it – cold rice and warm, iodine-laced water. The carbs would burn off in only a few hours.

"We low on ammo," BA informed. "We ain't gonna make it through another fight."

"I still have two clips," Murdock answered quietly. He hadn't fired the M-16 once.

"Still, that ain't much."

"We'll have to pick up some AKs," Hannibal concluded simply. "I'm sure the NVA will be willing to donate a few."

Cruiser chuckled at that. "Yeah. Face? Get us some guns."

A one-fingered salute answered him, but in spite of it, Face was smirking a little as he looked the other way. Murdock glanced back and forth, realizing he'd missed the inside joke.

"Let's move out," Hannibal ordered. "The faster we move, the more likely we are to still be alive when we get to the base."

**1985**

"Murdock!"

The captain blinked, startled, and opened his eyes to scan the world around him, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Had he been sleeping? They'd stopped, and everyone was out of the van except him. "Huh?"

"You coming?" Face was staring at him.

Murdock smiled in his best attempt at covering up the memories that were flooding his head – the memories that he'd not been able to keep at bay since he'd first seen Alan's face in the cabin. Without a word, he unbuckled his seatbelt and vaulted across the seat nearest the door before dropping out of the van.

"You okay?" Face asked, clapping a hand over his shoulder.

Murdock nodded. "Just… thinking. I'm okay."

They had pulled off the road and into the bushes. Murdock suddenly realized that he had no idea where they were. He'd been so deep in thought, he wasn't even sure if they'd crossed the border. But if they were stopping, there was a reason.

"The fence starts about a quarter of a mile up," Alan stated as he lingered at the side door of the van. Murdock walked around to the back, a step behind Face. Hannibal was already retrieving the guns from the case.

"Do they have guards besides at the gate?" Face asked, grabbing the M-16 that was passed to him.

"No. They have video surveillance, but it was having problems just last week. I don't know how well it's operating."

Murdock reached for the weapon Hannibal was holding out. They'd have to be on the lookout for cameras. "Are the guards armed?" BA asked.

"Oh yeah," Alan replied.

Hannibal checked one final weapon and held it out to Alan. "You remember how to use that thing, soldier?"

It was a stupid question – a rhetorical one – and Hannibal smiled internally at the incredulous look on Alan's face as he took the weapon. But Hannibal held the barrel, not completely releasing it. His smile fell quickly. "We're nothere to make a bloody mess all over," he clarified. "You don't shoot without an order, and you _don't _shoot to kill. Understand?"

Alan nodded, his look serious. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Hannibal released the weapon and shut the van doors.

"You're not really planning to just walk right up and knock, are you?" Alan asked, his voice tainted with disbelief as he followed a few steps behind.

"I want to know what we're dealing with," Hannibal clarified. "Right now, it's strictly a recon."

"Then why all the guns?" Alan asked, genuinely confused. "Because," Hannibal answered with certainty. "I like to always be prepared. You never know what you might run into, and getting caught with our pants down is a sure way to fail a mission."

**1969**

"You know what's really pissing me off about all this?" Cruiser mused, putting his thoughts to words as he crouched beside the tiny fire where they'd just prepared their evening meal. It was day four of their run through the jungle; there was hardly any food left.

"What's that?" Hannibal asked, leaning back on a nearby tree with a cigar in his mouth. Murdock couldn't help but stare at him. There was an AK-47 sitting across his lap – which Face and Cruiser had procured by circling behind the trackers and stripping the guns from the dead bodies of a few NVA as they chased the rest of the team. In spite of the gun, though, Hannibal looked almost serene - as if he were enjoying a midday picnic.

"We failed the fucking mission," Cruiser pointed out.

Boston – so named for his hometown although Ray Brenner had lived in a small town in Oklahoma for almost ten years before the war – shrugged off the irritated tone. "You win some, you lose some."

Cruiser glared at him. "Oh, I'm sure that's exactly what Westman's gonna say to us."

Hannibal smiled, eyes still closed and head back. "Westman won't give us shit about it," he said. "Peters might."

Once again reduced to the role of a quiet spectator, like the two Nungs who spoke only minimal English, Murdock listened quietly to the conversation.

"I can't stand that guy," Cruiser added with disgust. "Though he is the best dressed REMF I've seen in Vietnam."

Hannibal chuckled at the name-calling. "You ever see his record?"

Cruiser frowned. "I know he's gotten a lot of infantry men killed over some pretty stupid shit."

"He was a good combat soldier once." Hannibal opened one eye to look in Cruiser's direction. "But he got pretty cynical after Korea. He didn't want to be a part of this war."

"Did anybody want to be a part of this war?" Murdock asked, cynicism dripping from his voice.

"I volunteered," Murdock answered, eyes once again scanning the trees all around him for anything that moved. "But I gotta admit, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I volunteered," Bulldog admitted hesitantly. "But I never thought that –"

The sudden sound of three gunshots cut him off instantly. The two Nung soldiers snapped to attention beside him, instantly armed with the guns that had been set beside them. Another round of three shots shot, followed almost immediately by an advancing figure. Instinct pointed every gun in his direction, but no one pulled a trigger until they knew for sure. As Face entered the small clearing, Hannibal asked for a report almost before turning the gun away.

"We gotta move," Face said quickly. "There's only four of them that I can see, but they're signaling."

"I heard it," Hannibal nodded.

Murdock was on his feet, eyes darting, awaiting orders. "Cruiser, get BA."

"I'm here," BA informed, stepping through the overgrowth and into the clearing. "I heard 'em."

"Good. Let's go."

**1985**

Alan had been telling the truth. There wasn't much to see. Ten feet from the fence, on either side, the trees stopped, prohibiting any attempt to use the limbs for climbing over the fence. On the other side, there were just more trees.

They headed carefully and quietly towards the road, and stopped as the guarded gate came into view. Two guards in the shack chatting casually. The gate parted in the center. Murdock had no question that the van could barrel through it; they'd done it before.

"Only two guards?" Hannibal asked, surprised.

"They only need two," Alan answered. "You might make it through the first gate without much of a problem, but you've still got two more gates to get through. They'll know if you get through the first one, and they'll be ready at the second and definitely by the time you reach the third."

"How will they know?"

"Each person entering has a specific code that the guards have to put in when they enter. If there's no code – or if it's a wrong code – the next gate gets alerted to open fire on the approaching vehicle."

"I'm sure we could persuade the guards to put the right code in for us," Hannibal smiled.

"You'd have to be pretty careful about it," Alan said. "There's cameras. If the guys inside see anything that looks threatening, they will be ready at the next gate. Plus, the codes are so unique, there's no way to know if they put the right five digit number in until you get to the next gate."

Murdock could think of a way. All it would take was for the guard to know that one person would stay behind – with a gun – in case there was someone waiting for them at the second gate. The fear of being shot tended to make people very cooperative. The cameras could pose a bit of a problem, though.

"What vehicles are allowed in?" Hannibal asked, scanning back and forth through the trees.

"The cars are dropped off here," Alan said. "Then the drivers are escorted back out."

"All of these drivers are known by the guards?"

"Yeah."

"Got a picture of any of them?"

Alan stared, dumbfounded. Finally, he shook his head. "No. Sorry."

That ruled out an impersonation.

Murdock turned as Face jogged back along the fence to where they were stationed. "There's a tree about 500 yards down that we could use to get over the fence," he reported.

"You'll have a harder time getting over the second two," Alan reminded. "They're topped with barbed wire and razor wire. And there's a few dogs in the outer circle. They try to bite the tires of the cars when we roll in."

Face sighed. "This guy takes paranoia to a whole new level."

Murdock nodded. The security measures were a bit over the top.

"What happens to the cars when they go in through the gate?" Hannibal asked.

"They're parked in a garage and the drivers report to Corrolini for payment. Then they're escorted out and driven back across the border to a motel where they call for a cab, usually to take them to the airport. These cars come from all over the country."

"But anyone going in or out will be known by the guards," Hannibal recapped, for Face's benefit.

"What about service personnel?" Face suggested.

"Yeah, I could mess with their phone lines from out here."

"There's only specific people he allows in to do his repairs," Alan answered. "One time I remember they had a power line go down in the woods of the outer circle and Corrolini waited two days running on a backup generator because when he called, it was _his _serviceman's day off."

"That settles it," Face concluded. He smiled broadly. "The man's insane."

"He's real paranoid," Alan agreed.

Hannibal cast one look up and down the fence, then turned back the way they'd come. The rest of the group followed a few feet behind. "Alright, we'll split into two groups," Hannibal declared as they picked their way through the scraggly trees back to the van. "BA and I will go over the fence and try to clear the safest path from here to there. Face and Murdock, you need to get inside one of those cars and go through the gate."

"You'll need to stay out of sight," Alan stated. "If they see you, they'll alert the next gate."

"No problem," Face smiled. They were all warned of the coming sarcasm by the tone of his voice. "We'll just fold ourselves into origami and hide in the backseat under a blanket."

"Not a bad idea," Hannibal grinned back. Face rolled his eyes.

"Alan, you're going to stay with the van," Hannibal continued. "We'll need you on the radio in case we run into any problems or have any questions. You know more about this place than any of us."

"Alright," Alan nodded.

"What're we doin' when we get in there, Colonel?" Murdock asked.

"Well, part of that is going to depend on what you find," Hannibal replied. "We need to find out if the girl is being kept here or if they have her elsewhere."

"If she's here, do we have any idea where she'd be?" Face asked Alan.

Alan shook his head. "I haven't got a clue. But I haven't explored the whole house. The only places I've ever been inside is the office and the study."

"We'll be in contact the whole time," Hannibal reminded. "We should be able to play it by ear. With any amount of luck –" Hannibal smiled broadly as he considered his luck. "- this could be over and done within a few hours."

**1969**

The last twelve hours had been hell. Their luck was running out, no longer enough to balance out the exhaustion. RT Cannon had been in the field for nine days; it was too long for any man to remain on constant full alert. The inevitable carelessness had cost the life of one of the Nungs, and both BA and Bulldog had been wounded. BA's wounds weren't bad – one bullet that had gone straight through his leg and the other that had lodged near his right shoulder. Now, he used his other arm to fire. Bulldog's injury was more serious. The bullets that had hit his leg had shattered his femur.

"No, I don't want it," he protested, glaring at Cruiser as he readied an injection of morphine from his supply bag.

"We gotta carry you anyways," Cruiser reminded him as he filled the syringe. "You can't walk on that."

"I can at least try."

"Murdock!" His head snapped up at Hannibal's call. The colonel was approaching quickly to where Murdock was crouched next to the wounded man and the medic.

"What?" Murdock was completely drained of adrenaline. Even with bullets flying all around them, he was past the point of caring. After only four days (to the rest of the team's nine), he'd reached the sleep-deprived, adrenaline-soaked confusion where the lines between life and death were blurred and everything felt like a dream

"How far did you say we were from Da Nang when we went down?"

"Ten clicks," Murdock answered confidently. "We were about forty or forty-five from the DMZ. Why?"

"You're sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

"Then those choppers that are flying overhead are from Da Nang."

Murdock blinked. Choppers? He'd not even heard choppers overhead. The only thing he been noticing for the past hour was the rapid fire of the AK-47s. Suddenly, the thought of rescue flashed across his mind again. "You got WP?" he asked. "So we can pop smoke?"

"No. Not anymore."

Just as quickly, the thought of rescue was put down by the reality of their situation. "They won't see us unless we can clear some kind of LZ," he pointed out.

The rally point had drawn BA, Boston, and the remaining Nung, and they stood facing the trees as they waited for orders. "We're on a hill," Hannibal stated.

"Not much of one," Cruiser observed.

"Where's Face?" Hannibal spun, looking for him. "Face!"

"Here!" He was just on the other side of the tree line. Still firing, he backed up towards them. Murdock's grip tightened around his weapon. "What's the plan, Colonel?"

"Can we hold this position?"

Cruiser's eyes went wide, but it was Face's response that answered for all of them. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"How long?"

"Maybe five to ten minutes if we're lucky!" His firing stopped and he turned briefly to lock eyes with Hannibal. "We've got the high ground but we've got no extraction coming, remember?"

Murdock had to admit that "digging in" seemed senseless to him.

Hannibal seemed to debate that for just a moment, looking back and forth into the trees and at his men. Then, with a determination and authority of a man expecting to be obeyed without question, he gave his order. "BA and Wo-" The Nung's head spun around as Hannibal called his name. "- you're coming with me. We're gonna break for the camp."

Murdock's eyes went wide. Breaking for the camp meant a lengthy sprint through the jungle and there was no doubt that the enemy was present all around them. But Hannibal's tone left no room for argument. "Murdock, you and Boston go back up to the top of this hill and find the clearest spot you can. Try and make a slash and burn. The rest of you cover the area up there."

Murdock was still gaping. "You're splitting us up?" That sounded like suicide.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "Look Murdock. Bulldog cannot run, and there is no way we're going to make it if we try to carry him. We need an extraction. And in order for an extraction to happen, we need some kind of an LZ. So get to it!"

They all knew it was a do-or-die plan. If Hannibal's team didn't make it to the base – which was highly probable, given the number of enemy in the area – the team would be stranded on the top of the hill. They'd all end up dead. At the same time, if the other team didn't succeed in creating enough of a clearing for at least a McGuire rig to be dropped down, they'd never get off the hill even if the team made it back to base. They would need an awful lot of luck on their side. And their luck was dwindling…

They moved without thought, without feeling. Murdock and Cruiser tried to stay between Face and Boston. With Bulldog's arms draped over their shoulders – particularly difficult because the man was about six inches shorter than either of them – they struggled to move quickly and yet as steadily as they could. Murdock couldn't imagine the pain that the man was in, even with the morphine that Cruiser had given him.

They found a patch of sky between the jungle trees. It wasn't open enough for a chopper, but they could drop a rig. As long as the rescue chopper could find them, they had a chance. But in only twenty minutes, it became clear: there was no way to hold their position. With ammunition low, Murdock suddenly became aware of the fact that they were counting bullets.

"You still haven't fired that .38, right?"

Murdock looked down at the man whose wounds were still oozing in spite of the fact that Cruiser had patched them to the best of his ability. "Right. Why?"

Bulldog's eyes slid closed. "I won't get taken alive, man," he whispered. "I won't get taken alive."

Murdock stared at him. He had mixed feelings about that statement. In one sense, he agreed with the man completely. He'd heard the same stories of torture and mutilation. An American POW was a prize that would be heavily rewarded by the NVA. If they had a chance, the enemy would much rather take them alive than kill them. God only knew what would happen to them then – especially if the enemy discovered that two of them were officers. But at the same time, he'd seen successful POW rescues. He had confidence in his team. As long as Hannibal was alive, he wouldn't abandon them unless they were dead.

Like Alan…

The consideration caught him so off guard, he almost lost reality for a moment. He was brought back abruptly by Face's approach. "That's it," he declared. "We're completely dry. Bullets, grenades, everything."

Murdock swallowed hard as he saw Boston coming in close as well. Face's eyes were lingering on the weapon Murdock held in his hand. For just a moment, their gazes locked. "Don't do it," Face said flatly.

It was all he said.

Murdock nodded slowly and in the face of Bulldog's protests, handed the gun to the younger Lieutenant. As the evening shadows crept closer, Face turned and held the gun out in front of him. Murdock wasn't sure how he could even see his targets. He fired all six shots, each in a very different direction, then dropped the gun, put up his hands and yelled, "_Chu hoi_!" into the foliage.

The pistol hit the ground with a thud and suddenly, it was silent. The shooting had stopped. Too exhausted to even feel fear, Murdock stood. He took a few steps away from the wounded man who was spending the last of his energy cursing Face. Without a word, he stood with Boston to Face's right as Cruiser approached and stood to his left. Still and silent, they stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the advancing enemy filter through the trees.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**1985**

Alan had assured them that it wouldn't be difficult to spot the stolen car when it stopped for gas at the station where all the vehicles were supposed to refuel before crossing the border. He'd been right. They'd been there for almost an hour when the first car pulled up and refueled. It was not, as they had hoped, a truck of any kind. It was a sedan.

"Well, at least it has a decent sized trunk," Murdock grinned.

Face sighed, and watched as the driver disappeared inside the station before stepping out of the Corvette. He was reluctant to leave it at such a run-down place, but he'd already talked to the attendant and told him they were having car trouble and they would be back for it later in the day or possibly tomorrow. He'd assured that he would keep an eye on it, for what that was worth.

They knew they didn't have much time. But it didn't take very long to determine that the trunk was, in fact, the only place to hide. There was nothing in the backseat to hide under, and no other place where they might be out of sight. While Murdock watched the store, waiting for the reappearance of the driver, Face found the latch for the trunk inside the car and it popped open. Thankfully, there was nothing in the trunk, either. But it would still be a tight fit.

"You sure you're gon' be able to get this thing open from the inside?" Murdock asked as the two of them stood at the back of the car.

A quick exchange of uncertain glances, and they were out of time. The driver was moving back to the door. Murdock ducked down and climbed into the trunk, pressing himself as deep inside as he could to give Face room. "Tight fit" didn't begin to describe it.

It was hot, and as the trunk closed down on top of them, it became pitch black. Murdock breathed slow, not sure how much air they would have in here and well-aware that they could be in here for a while. He could already feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead and the back of his neck from the hot, enclosed space, and he realized as he closed his eyes that he couldn't see a damn thing with them open. Good thing he wasn't afraid of the dark…

**1969**

Huddled on the floor of a dark, rancid, muggy cell, Murdock was engaged in a self-study and reflection on what he had learned from this experience. It took a POW camp to make Murdock realize he'd never known fear. It took a POW camp to make him really know what hunger was. And it took a POW camp to make him realize that there were things worse than death.

All things considered, the first few days hadn't been that bad. They'd been kept together, and Hannibal – who'd been caught in the run for the camp – had been with them. He would come up with a plan, they'd thought. He always came up with a plan. A few brushes with the interrogators had bloodied them all, and when Murdock had been taken away, Bulldog's leg had been purple and swollen to three times its normal size. Words like "field amputation" had been shared, but Murdock had never seen the outcome of that. In all, though, they were fed and they were alive and they were together. It made them strong.

But then everything had changed in Murdock's world. He would never know why he was removed from the crowded bamboo cage – none of the VC would ever tell him – but he would never forget the looks on the faces of his team as he exchanged glances with them for the last time. It should've been a routine beating, and it received the routine "hang in there" gazes. But instead Murdock was led away, to a man and a truck and a long, blindfolded drive that ended at fortified prison – Son Tay. Since that day, he'd not seen another living soul.

Time was a blur since that day. He neither knew, nor cared how long it had been since he'd been placed in this hell hole. Alone in the dark, hot, cement cell, his only human contact came with the daily ration of rice and dirty water. He'd not seen the sun for… weeks? Months? Years? He couldn't tell. In the beginning, he'd counted the number of times they brought him food, figuring that they did so once a day. But he'd lost track, and realized it didn't really matter anyway. He was here to stay. He would die here. He was just waiting for the day to come.

At first, he'd thought it would be quick. More than once in those first few weeks, he'd huddled in the far corner of the pitch black cell in a shallow pool of his own blood, bleeding from his back where the bamboo cane of the small jungle camp had shredded his flesh. Those wounds had healed now. And it seemed like an eternity since they'd been inflicted. He wondered how many times his team had been through that horrific ritual since he'd gone. He wondered if they'd ever escaped. God, he sure hoped that they had…

Lying on the cement floor in the darkness, he traced invisible designs on the wall with his finger. He had no idea where he was and remembered only bits and pieces of how he'd gotten here. Reality and fiction had blurred long ago. It was difficult to tell which memories were from his own life, and which ones he'd seen in a movie somewhere or read in a book. He'd always had something of an overactive imagination. Right now, he was imagining himself as a Prehistoric hunter, hiding in a dark cave as he waited for his prey to pass by at the opportune moment.

In one smooth move, he shifted to a crouched position, forearms on his knees. "The mighty hunter awaits the arrival of the savage beast that he knows inhabits this dark and dangerous cave." He gasped, head spinning around. "What! What's that! It is the beast! He has returned from his kill. And he is about to become… the prey!"

Murdock crept forward, using his hands as a guide though he knew the dark cell by heart. "Slowly, the brave hunter moves in for the kill and with only a large rock for a weapon against the beast's powerful jaws… he attacks!"

Murdock leapt a full two feet up and over, landing in a crouched position and wrestling with the enormous invisible foe with loud cries of savage rage until at last, he was victorious! Rising to his feet – he couldn't quite stand up straight in the six foot cell, he stretched his arms out and beat his chest with a loud Tarzan-like yell.

Then the game was over, and he was bored again. Bored and alone with only his racing thoughts to keep him company. And those thoughts had long ago become too confused to make any kind of sense.

He sighed deeply as he sat down against the far wall and traced more designs, like cave etchings in the stone. For the millionth time, he wondered what had ever become of the rest of his team. Sometime very long ago, he had been blindfolded and led away. It had been the last time he'd seen daylight, and the last person his eyes had locked on was… somebody. He frowned deeply.

"That's pretty bad if you can't remember his name."

He sighed as he shut his useless eyes and leaned his head back against the hard, scratchy wall. "I remember it," he defended. "I just… can't think of it."

"If you remember it… what was it?"

Damn it, why couldn't he remember names? He remembered faces… vaguely… "Face!" he cried. "His name was Face." How could he have forgotten that?

"What about the others?"

"What about them?"

"Do you remember their names?"

He sighed. "What does it matter? I'm never going to see them again." He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned forward to touch his toes.

"It matters because the longer you can hold on to the little pieces of who you are and what your life was before this, the better your chances of putting it all back together again."

He laughed out loud. "Oh, please. My life ain't goin' nowhere. I ain't ever gon' see the outside of this room again an' you know it. I'll die here." He opened his eyes as he sat up and stared into the darkness as his smile fell. "Just like you did."

"It's the little things that don't matter that will keep you strong."

"What does it matter if I'm strong? I'm a dead man in here and you know it."

"Maybe not."

Murdock laughed. "You sound awful optimistic for a dead guy."

"Hannibal has pulled off some pretty daring rescues. Why do you think he wouldn't come for you, of all people?"

Murdock shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't see it happenin'." He sighed deeply as he considered it. "If he was gonna come, he woulda done it already." Hannibal. He hadn't heard that name in a while. But then, it had to be at least a dozen meals since the last time he'd given thought to any of his team. "Besides, I don't even know if he's alive."

"You don't know that he's not, either."

"They're probably all dead." He sighed with a detached sort of indifference at that thought. He could imagine how they'd died if he wanted to. But he didn't want to.

"You're not dead yet…"

Murdock considered that. Maybe he was still breathing, but in an ever-growing sense of the word, he was getting more and more "dead" every time he opened and shut his eyes and saw nothing but stifling hot, thick darkness. He could feel his sense of reality slipping through his fingers like sand, and he watched it go with an utterly amused fascination. So this was what it looked like when someone lost their mind.

"Hey, Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember how Dad always used to call me crazy?"

"Uh huh."

Murdock paused a moment and took a deep breath of stale, putrid air. The smell in this room – the smell of his own body – was almost enough to make him gag every time he breathed. The walls were closing in. He was running out of air. "I think maybe he was right…"

**1985**

A bit claustrophobic and drenched in sweat, Murdock was surprised he wasn't hearing more of a complaint from the other man crammed into the trunk with him. Once they were parked, it was up to Face – with a flashlight in his teeth and a pick in his fingers – to open the locked trunk from the _inside_. Murdock wasn't exactly sure how this was possible, but if anyone could do it, it would be Face. So he waited, breathing slow to savor the waning oxygen.

After several minutes of quiet work, Face let out a few choice words under his breath. Murdock was beginning to worry. "You _sure _you can do this Face?"

An irritated growl answered him. "Watch me."

A few more minutes, and Murdock heard the pop. Thank God. Murdock breathed in the rush of much cooler air, filling his lungs to capacity before letting out a deep sigh. The world outside was dim, but still seemed blinding to their eyes, which had already adjusted for the dark. As they climbed out, Murdock noticed why Face had reverted to the cursing: his hand was bleeding.

"How'd you do that?" Murdock asked, inspecting the deep gash on his finger.

Face answered him with a sarcastic look, but didn't speak. The question was rhetorical anyways. While Face looked for something to wrap his bleeding hand, Murdock grabbed the walkie talkie off his belt. "A-Team One is inside the wire, copy?"

"Copy, A-Team One, this is base. You're in the garage?"

Murdock glanced around him. There were three cars parked in the building, none of them any make or model he'd seen before. "Looks that way," he answered.

"The house is to your north. You should be able to see it from inside."

"Watch those cameras," Face warned. Murdock glanced up in the direction that he was pointing and saw the camera in the top corner of the room. There was another one in the opposite corner. Both were stationary and pointed at the garage door. Where they were both standing, right up against the wall and almost near the cameras, they were probably just out of the lenses' peripheral view.

Murdock passed underneath them, where he was sure they couldn't see, and stopped at a window overlooking a large, well-kept lawn. He hadn't thought lawns could grow like that down here. Looming over the few trees was a huge house, built almost like a castle with dark brown trim and off-white walls. Murdock studied the intimidating building for a long moment. Somewhere inside of there was someone who knew where they could find a scared teenage girl. Maybe she was even in there. They certainly had the security to keep her there. He wondered what she looked like, what she was thinking, if she had reached that point of hopeless resignation to her fate. He hoped not. At least if she had, he hoped that she would be able to snap out of it when she saw that someone had, in fact, come for her.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**1969**

No one was coming for him. Alan had stopped trying to convince him of that ten meals ago. "Ever wonder what it would be like if we had wings?" he asked, lying on his back in the center of the cell.

"If we had wings, we could fly."

"If we had wings, we'd be trapped birds inside a cage," Murdock pointed out. He smiled as he considered it. "Unless we were really little birds. Then we could fly out the little hole in the door where they stick the food." He had tried to fit through that hole, but he was too big. He could only get his arm through.

"What color birds would we be?"

Footsteps on the other side of the door, echoing down the long hallway, cut his thoughts off abruptly. Alan went somewhere else to hide, somewhere far away, and Murdock was alone in the cell. It was not mealtime. Who on earth was coming for him? The interrogators had just been in to see him two meals ago. It seemed strange that they would be returning so quickly.

The lock in the cell door turned, and Murdock shut his eyes hard against the blinding light of the expected flashlights. He'd learned on the very first trip to the interrogation chamber just how sensitive his eyes had become. Even with his lids closed, the darkness turned to a bright white glow as the light came through his eyelids.

"_Dung_!" a rough voice snapped at him in Vietnamese.

He stood as ordered and smiled at the man he couldn't see. "Well, hello! It's a pleasure to see you again so soon!" His wounds hadn't completely healed from the last time yet.

"_Yen lan, lon_!"

Murdock ignored both the insult and the order to shut up. This man was unfamiliar to him. Murdock wondered if he spoke any English. So far, Murdock had managed to keep hidden the fact that he both understood and spoke Vietnamese.

"I don't get many visitors down here, you know," he rambled as a blindfold was tied around his eyes. His hands were cuffed in front of him just a few seconds later. He gave no thought to struggling. "It's not a bad little hotel with all things considered. Room service is always prompt, comfortable beds. Housekeeping leaves something to be desired, though. The room was a little dirty when I checked in this morning."

Without any response, the man shoved him forward. Blind and weakened by blood loss and starvation, Murdock stumbled out into the long, familiar hallway. He was barely able to walk, and had to use the wall beside him for support. A gun in his back led him down the long walkway to the right. "Hey, do you know any good restaurants in town?" he questioned. "I've got a real taste for a great big hamburger and some steak fries. Know where I can get one of those?"

Fifteen steps, turn right, twenty-three steps, turn left and wait. The path was familiar and well rehearsed. But this time, as Murdock stopped at the door, the man ran into him. He paused, surprised and confused, as the angry guard cursed him in Vietnamese for stopping when he'd not been ordered to do so. With the gun jammed into his back, he walked past the required turn into the room at the left. No longer sure where he was going, he nevertheless kept walking, rambling the entire way about the sights in the surrounding area and his favorite foods.

He suddenly felt a slight temperature change – only a degree or two cooler but his senses had been heightened by the sensory deprivation for so long that he recognized it immediately. The shouting of soldiers, the rush of a breeze rustling the trees in the surrounding area. He was outside. He felt the sun hit his skin – it burned so hot it almost made him cry out in surprise and pain – and stumbled forward to where he felt the hot metal of a truck on his hands.

_ "Nhan duoc ben tong!" _the guard ordered, and Murdock obediently climbed into the back bed of the truck.

Confused, he huddled back against the side of the truck, cuffed hands in his lap. He gave no thought to removing the blindfold, even though he could have easily reached it. Instead, he just sat still, confused thoughts racing as the truck pulled away. There were people back here with him. It occurred to him to wonder if they were Vietnamese or other American prisoners. But he thought it best to say nothing.

Indistinguishable conversation from the front of the truck, and they stopped at the camp gate. Starting again, they headed in an unknown direction. They were probably no more than a few yards away when he heard the first voice, in a language he'd not heard for months. "Murdock, you look like hell."

Murdock was surprised at just how quickly his coherence returned. "Face?" he cried, stunned. Immediately and instinctively, he reached up to remove the blindfold.

"No no no, don't do that," another voice cut him off quickly, grabbing his hand. Cruiser… "You've been down in there for almost six months. You'll burn your retinas out."

Murdock's jaw dropped. Six months? Had it really been that long?

"Here, take this."

Face placed a pill in his hand and a bottle of water. Murdock downed it without even thinking to ask what it was. "I thought you were dead!" he cried.

"Yeah, well, we thought the same 'bout you." BA sounded angry. Murdock was too stunned to respond.

Suddenly, it occurred to him to ask what was going on. Were they being transported to another camp? He was so surprised to see them all alive that he had almost forgotten about the guard who'd led him at gunpoint to the truck.

"That's Giap," Face explained as they jostled over the bumps of the dirt path. "We borrowed him from the LLDB."

Murdock felt his chest tighten with a feeling of anticipation that he'd become completely unfamiliar with in the past few months. "You mean… he's with us?" He was almost afraid to ask.

"He's with us," Face confirmed.

"You're safe, Murdock," Cruiser informed. "Now we just need to get you fixed up, and you'll be on your way back home."

Murdock realized his hands were shaking. Home. He'd never thought he would hear that word again.

**1985**

The sun was finally setting, casting dark shadows across the sprawling lawn. No one had come into the garage in the past few hours, and the house – if it could be called a mere "house" - seemed fairly quiet.

"A-Team One to Base, copy?"

It only took a few seconds for Alan's voice to come back over the walkie talkie. "Go ahead, One."

Murdock was sitting between the cars, carefully avoiding the cameras. These were indeed nice cars. The one he was leaning against, Face had pointed out, was a 1983 Corvette. More accurately, it was _the _1983 Corvette. Only 40-something prototypes of the 1983 model had been made and only one had survived. If Face was right, and this was the surviving car, they'd stolen it out of the National Corvette Museum in Kentucky.

"Security seems pretty slack from this end," Face stated into the radio. He was peering out the window. "Nobody coming or going. No patrols."

"You probably won't meet up with any patrols," Alan informed. "Just cameras and alarms. And armed security if you trip any of them."

"What's the best way inside?"

"First you'll need to get out of the garage," Alan reminded. "There's a door to walk through right next to the garage door on the west wall. Do you see it?"

Murdock approached slowly so that he could hear better. "Yeah."

"If you go through the regular door, it's gon' send a little alarm to the security control in the house, just to let someone know that the door is opening. So you can either disarm the alarm system or find another way out."

"What about the windows?" Face asked.

"Don't know," Alan admitted. "I never knew anyone who tried going out the windows."

"Standby."

Face clipped the radio to his belt. Murdock stood a few feet away and watched as he checked the window in front of him extra carefully for anything that looked like a trip wire. Then, slowly, he unlatched it and slid it open, lifting the screen out and setting it on the floor. It almost seemed too easy. But then, sometimes the easiest solutions were also the most practical.

Face reached for the radio again. "We'll use the windows. What's the best way into the house?"

"From where you're at, you should be able to see the back door and three windows on the ground floor."

Face and Murdock both looked. "There's lots of windows on the ground floor."

"Three big windows," Alan clarified. "Picture windows."

"Yeah, okay. We see them."

"The closest to the door looks down a hallway with a stairwell going up to the second floor. Do you see the smaller window on the second floor, just to the left of the hallway window?"

"Yeah."

"That's Corrolini's office. He spends most of his time in there."

"Hey, Face?" Hannibal's voice on the radio was unexpected.

"Go ahead."

"If you need a distraction, let us know."

Face paused to consider that. "What kind of distraction?"

"We've placed charges near the guard shack at the second gate. If you need them, we've got them hooked to a remote detonator."

"Copy. We're going in, so we'll be offline."

"Be careful," Alan offered just before Face turned the volume on the walkie talkie all the way down, cutting them off from the rest of the team.

**1969**

Murdock was exhausted. The day had been so full of doctors and diagnoses and questions without answers that he had lost track. Now, still blindfolded to protect his eyes, he was lying on a cot with an IV in his arm, clean clothes, and fresh bandages. He'd surprised them all with how relatively uninjured he was; though the scars on his back told them that he'd not been particularly well treated. But the wounds had, miraculously, remained mostly uninfected – at least, not infected enough to endanger his life. A fracture in his arm hadn't broken all the way through the bone, and had healed itself. The same was true of several cracked ribs. He had more scars than treatable wounds. There was no telling how many rules of the Geneva Convention had been broken over the past several months.

"I'm tired," he sighed, breathing deeply as he turned and rested the side of his face against the cool sheets. He'd showered today for the first time in six months, propped up against the wall because he couldn't stand up on his own two feet for long enough to get clean. Even so, it was the most blessed and wonderful experience of his life so far.

"Get some sleep."

He was almost surprised to hear the voice that answered him. For so long, he'd been so alone with only his imagination to converse with… But since he'd returned, Face had only left his side to step out of the room as per request of the higher-ups who wanted to question Murdock.

"Where's Hannibal?" he asked as the thought suddenly occurred to him. "And Boston."

"Boston went home," Face informed. "He's got a wife back there. Hannibal's in Saigon with Westman. I told him I'd stay with you."

"He's not getting orders, is he?"

"No, he's… tying up loose ends. It was a little tricky getting the okay to come in after you."

"And Bulldog?"

Face was quiet for a moment. "He didn't make it."

Murdock hesitated to ask the question that was foremost on his mind. "What happened to you guys?"

Face hesitated. "We… managed to escape. They had a truck. We got to it and we ran." He lowered his eyes. "It's kind of a long story. But we figured you were dead. We looked for you as much as we could, but… we didn't even know what camp they'd sent you to."

"How did you find out?" Murdock asked, curious.

"We snatched an NVA who happened to have been stationed here. He told us everything he knew. Told us you were still alive. Hannibal went that same day to try and clear it with Westman. When he wouldn't approve it, he called back and told us to go anyways."

Murdock was stunned. "So this wasn't approved?" he asked. "You could be up against a court martial for that!"

"Hannibal could," Face granted. "He was the only one who knew at the time that it wasn't approved. I didn't find out until just a few hours ago."

"You'll have a hard time proving that."

"Westman won't court martial him," Face assured confidently. "He would have had to if we'd failed, but I suspect that Westman knew he'd do it anyways even when he gave the order not to. They've been friends for years and years."

"Still…" Murdock couldn't put his surprise into words. "That seems so risky."

"Hannibal likes to roll the dice," Face sighed. "And we all felt sort of personally responsible for you."

Murdock frowned. "Why? I was the one who crashed the damn chopper."

Face didn't answer.

"So what happens now?" Murdock asked after a long silence.

"We're about to rotate back into active recon in two weeks," Face answered. Murdock didn't answer, and Face sighed. "Even after they cleared us for return to active duty, there were a lot of restrictions."

"Are you ready to go back?"

"Oh, yeah. Going out of my mind with all these little bullshit assignments." He paused briefly. "Not the one to get you out, of course."

Murdock smiled. "Face, you guys are the only people I ever met who can't wait to get killed."

Face chuckled in response. "I don't think of it like that. I know I'll die here. But I'm gonna live it up for every second until that day comes. And there's no way I'd rather spend my time than rubbing those commie bastards' faces in the dirt."

"Two weeks," Murdock reflected quietly. "I don't think I'll be quite ready to fly in two weeks."

Face was quiet for a long moment. "I don't think you'll need to," he finally answered, his voice so low it was barely audible. "They'll probably ship you back to the States. Your tour is almost over, anyway."

Murdock was surprised to find that he felt no reaction whatsoever to that statement. There was neither relief nor surprise, joy nor sadness. He was going home. And he was still alive. _You should be happy, Murdock_, Alan whispered._ You're lucky to still be alive._

Murdock frowned deeply as he considered those words, and his chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. Yeah. Lucky.

Somehow, he didn't feel particularly lucky.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**1970**

Winter seemed especially cold. "Home" seemed especially lonely. Murdock stood at the window of the hotel room he'd been living in for almost two months, holding a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. He was interested in neither. The money would run out soon, and although he'd tried three times in as many weeks, he couldn't seem to hold down a job for more than a few days. The war had changed him more than any of these hippie bastards could know.

He might've been one of them had he not gone over. He might've even been involved in a few protests, holding blood drives for the NVA and waving anti-American banners on American soil. But as it was, he'd found that the best course of action was simply to lock himself in his room and watch life from the window through a haze of numbing drunkenness. They didn't want him there, and he didn't want to dwell among them. His body still bore the scars of his tour in Vietnam, and America spoke a language that was foreign to him. Carefree naiveté and ignorant bliss. He hated them.

Maybe when the B-52 bombers were done with Vietnam, they could come back over here and make craters out of these goddamn universities where these traitor assholes hung VC flags in the classrooms. It was insult to injury. Those rooms were filled with whining brats, while the men who'd chosen not to evade the draft bled and died on foreign soil. Murdock had not been one of those drafted kids, but he had seen too many of them bleed out in the back of his chopper to let the thought drift far from his mind. It was a righteous anger that welled up inside of him when he saw them insulted by the cowardly bastards who should've died in their place.

Murdock shut his eyes and took another long drag from his cigarette. He had no family anymore, and nowhere to go. He hadn't even bothered to contact his few friends when he'd come back home. They were too busy marching in protests to care about his return anyways; he didn't want to see them.

Honorably discharged from the military and given a clean bill of health after only a few weeks in the VA hospital, he was given a nice severance package and a free ride to the college of his choice. He didn't want to go to college. He could think of nowhere he'd enjoy less than in a university full of draft-evaders. Uninterested in any of the advice he'd received from the VA, he'd simply found a hotel and turned it into a semi-permanent residence. Once the money ran out, he wasn't sure where he'd go. He didn't really care.

The knock on the door startled him. In cutoff jeans and nothing else, he stumbled to answer it, setting the bottle on the dresser. When he opened the door, his eyes widened immediately and he stood up a bit straighter. "Colonel!" he exclaimed, surprised. Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith stood in full uniform, just outside the room. Murdock opened the door wider without even thinking, inviting him into the room. "What the hell are you doing here?" There was no one else he would've been more surprised to see.

"I should ask you the same question," Hannibal answered, removing the familiar green beret as he stepped inside. Murdock shut the door behind him. "I just came from the VA. They told me I could find you here."

"You found me," Murdock confirmed. "Why are you looking for me?"

Hannibal's eyes scanned the room, and Murdock immediately felt incredibly self-conscious. The place was a mess and he knew it. He'd not let housekeeping in here for over a week, and there were cans and bottles and empty cigarette packs strewn on every flat surface. There wasn't much else, thankfully. He only had a few sets of clothes and hardly ate anything. Aside from the Vitamin D pills he'd been strictly ordered to take after so many months in a dark cell, all he'd really consumed since he'd returned to the States was liquor, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the occasional pizza.

"This place is a mess." Leave it to Hannibal to state the obvious.

"I wasn't expecting company."

_ "He's come to tell you everyone's dead." _The voice in his head was so real, it was almost audible._ "Either that or to drag your ass back to that hell hole."_

Murdock set his jaw as he answered silently, but firmly. _"You may think so, Alan, but you've been wrong before."_

Hannibal turned to look him up and down. Drawn back to his awareness of the outside world, Murdock watched him. The look in his eyes was unfamiliar, almost compassionate. "Get dressed, Murdock," he ordered. "Let me buy you dinner."

Stunned at the common, friendly gesture, Murdock could do nothing but nod.

*X*X*X*

If Hannibal even noticed the looks of pure horror that he was receiving from every direction, he didn't acknowledge them. In dress greens and sporting a dark tan, his body well toned from months of active service, he definitely stood out among the fat and pale-skinned civilians. A few of them paused to stare but – perhaps just because of the way the man carried himself – nobody in the restaurant dared to say anything in a tone he could actually hear. It was all spoken in hushed whispers and murmurs.

"So what are you doing now that your service is over?" From Hannibal's tone, Murdock immediately realized that this was going to be an interrogation.

_ "Better be careful what you tell him. You know what he wants if he came all this way."_

Murdock growled at the ever-present voice echoing in his head. _"Enough already!"_

"I've been working on finding a job," he lied. Hannibal raised a brow and Murdock's eyes lowered. "And thinking about going to college."

"Why just thinking about it?"

Murdock shifted nervously. "Well, I don't really know yet. I've… had a lot to think about."

Hannibal was quiet.

_ "Tick tock, tick tock…"_

_ "Knock it off. There's just nothing to say."_

As the lines of doubt and distrust continued rehearsing in his brain, Murdock did his damnedest to ignore them. Still, as the silence stretched, he grew more and more uncomfortable… and more and more aware that there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"How is everyone?" he finally asked.

"They're fine," Hannibal answered casually. "BA still has problems with his shoulder from that bullet wound. Cruiser took a couple good sized pieces of shrapnel in his leg a few weeks ago and Face broke a few ribs falling out of a McGuire rig."

Murdock's eyes widened. "He fell out of a McGuire rig? From how high?"

"About thirty feet."

"Through the trees?"

"Yeah."

"And he only broke a few ribs?" How lucky was that man?

_"Luckier than you…"_

"He also sprained his ankle. But he's doing alright. We all took a few overdue days of R&R to recover a little."

Murdock snorted with laughter. "You mean to tell me you came here on R&R?"

"After a short stay in Hawaii, yeah."

"Why?"

"To find you."

The quick, firm answer caught Murdock off guard. He looked up at the man seated across from him and stared for a moment, jaw slack. "Why?"

"Because you've been given a clean bill of health," Hannibal answered. "Which means you could return to active service if you wanted to."

Murdock looked away. That taunting voice had been right. Damn it!

"I've been discharged from active duty, Hannibal," he reminded.

"So reenlist."

Murdock shut his eyes and processed those words very slowly. Was he out of his mind? Who would willingly do such a thing? But maybe more importantly, who in their right mind would be asking him to do it? Finally, he looked back up. "Why?" he asked flatly.

Hannibal had clearly been expecting the question. "Because I flew eight thousand miles just to find you, and to tell you that we need you."

"There's other pilots," Murdock said.

"If I wanted another pilot," Hannibal answered, "I wouldn't have had to come all the way to LA to find one."

"Why did you come all the way to LA?" Murdock demanded, suddenly feeling inexplicably defensive. "The last time I flew you, I crashed into the jungle and killed two people on impact. And I almost got us all killed trying to get back to base."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "You never struck me as one to indulge in guilt and self-loathing, Lieutenant."

Murdock blinked, caught completely off guard by the accusatory statement. It took him a few seconds to find words. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Hannibal leaned forward a little. "I came out here not knowing what I would find," Hannibal answered, suddenly matching his defensive tone. "And if I'd found a man who was making something of his life, I would've turned right back around and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Instead I found you in some God-forsaken roach motel with an open bottle of vodka on the dresser and at least six of them empty on the floor. So you tell me, Lieutenant. Where the hell are you gonna go when the money runs out? You've got to be getting pretty close…"

"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" Murdock demanded.

"I'm asking you to pick yourself up off the floor and get your shit together," Hannibal shot back. "Because I'm not willing to lose the best goddamn pilot in Vietnam to a cesspool of liquor and self-pity. At least not without a fight."

Murdock straightened. "It's not your call to make," he reminded, eyes narrowed. "I'm a civilian now. You have no authority."

"I'm not saying this as your commanding officer," Hannibal corrected. "I'm saying it as your friend."

Murdock watched, silent, as Hannibal rose to his feet. "As my friend, you should realize that you're asking a lot."

"Maybe." Hannibal smiled. "But I want you to think it over." He set his napkin on his plate and said, loud enough for half of the restaurant to hear, "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant."

Murdock shut his eyes, jaw clenched as the room's attention was turned toward him. Angry and indignant, he looked up again to burn holes into the back of Hannibal's head. The colonel walked three steps, paused, and turned back. "You're a good man, Murdock," he said quietly. "And you were worth every bit of the hell it cost to get you out of that camp. I would do it again in a heartbeat. We all would."

"What's your point?" Murdock demanded coldly.

"I'm not saying that you're obligated to repay any one of us. I'm just asking you to consider if you can think of anyone else in your life who cares that much about you. Go to school if it's what you want. Get a job, get married, have kids. You've served your country well and you don't owe anyone a damn thing – not me, not your government, and certainly not all of these idiots." Hannibal gestured around the room, making eye contact with a few people who quickly looked away. "You owe nothing – not one more drop of your blood. But if all you're going to do is waste away in regrets, you can't expect the people who care about you to stand by and watch that. Especially when we need you."

There was no parting word, no handshake or gesture. Hannibal simply turned and walked away. Murdock stared after him, then leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Although the murmurs continued in the restaurant around him, Murdock suddenly felt very alone.

**1985**

"Are you coming?"

Face was less than patient as Murdock hoisted himself up and out the window, landing less-than-gracefully on the grass. "Sorry," he apologized quietly.

"What's with you today?" Face asked, irritation mixed with curiosity as he crept along the outside wall of the garage, scanning the perimeter.

"Sorry," Murdock sighed. "Just… thinking. I was kinda countin' on this weekend to be nice and relaxing, ya know?" He followed a few feet behind Face, head down out of habit. "This isn't quite what I had in mind."

"Well, you'd better keep your mind on how it _is _instead of how it could be," Face warned. "We're kind of in enemy territory here, remember?"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

The sprawling lawn was empty and almost eerie in the dim light. Murdock kept low as he crossed the open lawn to the mansion, so close behind Face that he was almost stepping on his heels. Immediately, they skirted around the holly bushes and up against the brick, just right of the large picture window.

"There's cameras in the trees," Face said quietly.

"Where?" Murdock sure as hell hadn't seen them.

Face pointed out three of them, one of which was pointed directly at the back door.

They checked a few windows, but they were all locked and alarmed. Perhaps more importantly, several of the rooms on the first floor were occupied. Murdock looked up at the six inch ledge where the bricks protruded just under the windows of the second story. It wound around the side of the building. He cast a quick glance at Face and saw his eyes turned in the same direction. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"If there's a way up there…" Face qualified.

Windows on the second story were less likely to be locked. Rooms on the second story were less likely to be occupied. It was at least worth a shot.

Face stayed low, picking his way through the bushes just ahead of Murdock. Around the corner, they found what they were looking for – a vine trellis that looked like it could possibly hold their weight. Face went first, tucking his gun back into his belt before he climbed. Once he was up, Murdock followed. Huddled against the wall and well aware that they were wide-open targets if anyone should happen to see them, they inched to the nearest dark window. Face checked it and found it locked. He moved on and checked the next one, but when it was locked too, he scanned the edges of it carefully for any kind of an alarm. He found it, on the inside of the pane.

Murdock was busy watching the yard for any signs of movement. What were the chances she was in this house? That they would be able to find her? The goal of recon was to get in and out without being seen, and Hannibal had made it clear that this was "strictly recon." But Murdock couldn't imagine that if they actually found the girl that they were supposed to leave her there…

In any case, they had to get inside of this building without breaking windows or setting off alarms. Then there were the broader risks – the cameras, for instance. And a dog – or any kind of patrol, for that matter – would've almost certainly meant they'd be seen where they were stranded on the six inch ledge, ten feet off the ground.

Being out in the open apparently unnerved Face as much as Murdock. He continued along the ledge to where the roof sloped down, then climbed up onto the rooftop on his hands and knees, careful not to slip on the shingles. Murdock followed a step behind. They both stopped just before the peak of the roof and lay flat, on their stomachs.

"Hey, Hannibal, you copy?" Face hissed into the walkie talkie.

It took a few seconds for the response. "Go ahead."

"How far out are you?"

"We're coming up to the last gate. Had some trouble with the dogs that held us up for a while. Why?"

"This place is locked up pretty tight," Face said into the radio. "There's cameras and alarms all over, and the alarms are on the inside. Either we're going to set one off or we're going to need to cut the power. How do you want to do this?"

Murdock considered the possibilities quietly. Cutting the power wouldn't be hard. Making it look like an accident would. They were going to know someone was here if the power went out all of a sudden. It appeared that their "silent" recon was facing immeasurable odds. More than likely, they were going to have to trade silence for efficiency and hopefully a bit of luck.

**1970**

It had taken a bit of know-how and a fair amount of luck to find Colonel Hannibal Smith. His unit was not in Da Nang. And they were not in Nha Trang, or Plieko, or Lang Veih or any of the many Forward Operating Bases along the western border. They were in Saigon, of all places. Informed of this, Murdock was then faced with the difficult question of how to catch them before they departed Saigon and headed to some remote area deep in enemy territory.

His luck came through again.

"Sure, I know Hannibal." The affirmative response after so many blank stares made Murdock breathe a sigh of relief.

"Do you know where I might find him?"

"Maybe." The soldier – a warrant officer from the 1st Air Cav by his rank insignia and patch – was sizing him up. It suddenly occurred to Murdock to be wary of this man. "Who's asking?"

Wary or not, Murdock extended a hand and offered a smile. "Howlin' Mad Murdock, at your service," he said, purposely neglecting his rank. The soldier could see it on his lapel if he was interested. "Or at least what's left of me. Reorientation into this chicken shit outfit is a bitch."

The warrant officer's eyes widened. "You're Howling Mad Murdock?"

Apparently his reputation preceded him. "No no no, see… you said it wrong." Murdock continued to grin as he pulled back from the handshake and gestured in the air a little. "It's not how-ling." He emphasized the end of the word. "How-ling sounds like a Chinese guy's name. It's How-lin'. Howlin' Mad. Now you try it."

Clearly, the young warrant officer – he couldn't have been more than a few weeks in-country – did not know how to take this. He just stared for a long moment. Murdock would have to be the one to break the tension, and he did so smoothly. "Anyhow, where can I find Colonel Smith?" he asked.

"Uh…" The man shook his head quickly, as if to clear it, then gestured down the hall. "He's in the officer's club. I just came from there. I'll uh… show you the way if you'd like."

"Smokin'! Let's go."

Murdock was so light on his feet, he was almost skipping down the hall. After six months of retraining and testing, he'd arrived in Vietnam three weeks ago. Every spare moment since had been spent in an effort to track down his former CO. He should've known to come to Saigon first. After all, it was where all of their orders came from. But something about knocking on General Westman's door had been an unsettling thought.

"You're sure he's in here?" Murdock asked as they approached the doors of the hastily built structure.

"Positive, sir."

Taking a big step forward and pulling out ahead of the man, he threw the doors to the officer's club open and stepped inside with his arms over his head and a shout that echoed off of the walls. "Gentlemen! The cavalry has arrived!"

A few seconds of startled stares, then suddenly he locked eyes with a table full of familiar faces. "Murdock!"

He grinned as the doors closed behind him and chairs scraped the floor as the entire table rose to greet him. "So, wait," Cruiser said as he came closer. He grabbed his shoulder and turned him to look at the patch on his arm. "You're in the army now?"

"1st Aviation Brigade," Murdock answered with a smirk. "And I got a promotion out of it, too."

"How the hell did you swing that?" Face asked, studying the new insignia.

He chuckled. "Funny story. I went to the Air Force recruiting office and the jackass basically tells me that they really don't want me back."

"What!" Cruiser laughed. "That's fucking crazy!"

"Well, it was a little more complicated than that but anyways, as this guy is giving me the third degree, Army recruiter comes walking right by. They were all in the same building, you know? And he jumps right in and says they'll not only take me in Vietnam, but they'll put through for a promotion and send me anywhere I wanna go. I signed on the dotted line five minutes later."

Hannibal stood back, watching carefully with a cigar in his hand as they all exchanged greetings. Finally, he locked eyes with Murdock. Their gaze held for a long moment. Finally, Hannibal smiled. Murdock returned it. He was home.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**1970**

"Uh, are you planning on leaving that chopper out there?"

Murdock smiled. "Actually, I'd feel better if I could park it inside the wire. 'Specially when the sun goes down."

The captain of A-106, and the two sergeants with him, both stared. Hannibal stepped forward, offering a hand. "Captain Poll, I'm Hannibal Smith." He gestured around him for introductions. "This is my Lieutenant, Templeton Peck, Sergeant BA Baracus, Sergeant James Harrison, and our pilot, Captain HM Murdock."

Poll laughed. "I can't believe it. You guys really do have your own designated pilot?"

"And chopper," Murdock smiled. "Once in a while, we can even get a gunner."

"Well, it's good to see you," Poll said, shaking hands with each of them. "All of you. What brings you here? I was told it was rather difficult to request you guys."

"We were just passing through," Hannibal answered, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. Without thought, Face offered him a light. "Someone told us you've got a problem with the VC in this area."

"You might say that." Poll turned back toward the camp and the team followed him through the wire, inspecting their surroundings carefully. Sandbags and concertina, four towers and several bunkers, hastily constructed out of plywood and thatch. It was not particularly well-fortified. Murdock bit back his concern at the idea of actually sleeping here.

"How many patrols are out right now?" Hannibal asked.

"Two recon, two ambush. Only two Americans on each."

Face glanced around. "And your camp is this empty?" Besides the three Americans who were leading them through the gate, Murdock saw only Yards – mostly women.

"We've had a lot of people killed, sir."

"By what, exactly?"

Poll stopped inside the gate as Hannibal walked to the rolls of barbed wire surrounding the perimeter. "We take a mortar shelling just about every night," the captain explained.

Hannibal shook the wire, and the cans attached to it rattled. Then he glanced up at Poll. "Any Montagnard villages around here that we might be able to recruit from?"

"There's three in the area. Used to be four, but the VC destroyed one. A few of the children here were from that village. Orphans."

"Have you tried recruiting soldiers?" Face asked.

"Oh, we've tried. But they're afraid of anyone who carries a gun."

"Sounds like we'll need to make friends." Hannibal exchanged glances with Face, and Face nodded.

"Your perimeter is dangerous, man," BA declared, scanning the trees behind them. "You only got fifty yards between you an' the trees."

"You know how long it takes a sapper to cross fifty yards?" Cruiser asked.

"So far, they've only been attacking our patrols," Poll answered. "But I'd rather not find out firsthand. I've wanted to move it back. But one of the shellings destroyed our equipment. And it's been damn near impossible to get it replaced. Or to get an engineer out here to fix what we still have."

"BA?" Hannibal directed with only a brief look in his direction.

"Right," BA nodded.

"How many guns do you have in the towers?" Hannibal asked, walking down the inside of the perimeter.

Poll and his sergeants and the team all followed. "Well, we got two 81s, three 60s, nine 30s." Poll frowned. "We had another 81 and three more 30s, but we lost them all on one wall with a shelling. Along with five of our men."

"No 50 cal?"

The captain smirked. "Sir, if you know where we could find a 50 cal, I'd give my right arm to have one."

"I'll get right on that," Face grinned, not waiting for the directive from Hannibal.

"Get us some corrugated tin, too. And go with BA to see what kind of equipment he won't be able to repair. We'll need at least one working bulldozer."

"Come on," Face said, tapping Murdock's shoulder as he turned away and followed BA. "I'll need you and your chopper."

**1985**

"Hey, Alan?"

There was almost no pause before the answer came back. "Yeah?"

Murdock's eyes were on Face, who was inspecting a skylight window. But his primary concern was the radio in his hand. "You ever seen this security room?" Murdock asked.

"Yeah, briefly."

"Where is it?"

"There's a room at the front of the house without windows, just before the door to the basement."

Face crawled on his hands and knees up the steep pitch, back to where Murdock was lying flat, trying to avoid being silhouetted against the sky. "Do you know if the alarms are specific to which window is being broken?"

"Now that, I couldn't tell you."

"That window's not alarmed," Face said, drawing Murdock's attention away from the radio. "It's over a bathroom and there's a ten foot drop inside. But I think it's our best bet."

"Okay, we got a way in," Murdock informed. "Standby, we've gotta turn the radio down."

It was a careful crawl up to the skylight window. Once there, they spent a few seconds checking carefully to plan their way down to the floor. Holding the barrel of his pistol, Face cracked the grip against the windowpane - hard. The glass shattered. The sound was deafening in the silence around them, and both of them turned to lie flat against the roof, out of sight if someone came into the bathroom and looked up. Murdock shut his eyes as he stopped breathing for a few seconds.

They waited, but everything around them remained still. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Face turned and cleared away some of the glass with the pistol, then wrestled his way out of his shirt, using it to protect his hands as he dropped down into the bathroom. He hung suspended for a moment before he found his footing on the sink. Carefully, he shifted his weight and let go of the skylight frame. Then he slowly climbed down.

Murdock followed carefully, and paused a few steps behind Face while he checked the hallway. Nothing moved, and Murdock followed a few steps behind, against the wall and into the next room, closing the door behind them. It was a large and sterile bedroom; nobody occupied it. In the shadows, Murdock could see the outlines of the furniture: a bed, tall wardrobe, and desk.

"We're inside." Face's whisper into the radio made him jump.

"Where are you?" The volume was so low, Murdock almost couldn't hear Alan's reply.

"A guest room, it looks like."

"You're on the second floor?"

"Yeah."

"Corrolini conducts all of his business either in the office or the study. The office is on the second floor, on the west side, just to the left of the big hallway window if you're looking from the backyard. The study is on the first floor. Going in the back door, it's down a hallway to the right, first door on the left."

"When we go down the stairs," Face whispered, "which way is it to the study?"

"Depends on which stairs you go down," Alan answered. "If you go down the main steps into the foyer, you'll need to turn back the other way and head toward the back door, then go left."

"Are there other stairs?"

"There are. I'm not sure where. End of the hallways, I think. On either side."

"Alright, standby. We're heading to the office."

Murdock was already checking the hallway again. It was pleasantly quiet and dimly lit. His guess was that Corrolini wasn't even here. Maybe there was no one here, except of course for the security guards. But they would deal with that later. Right now, they seemed to have a clear shot to the office.

"We should check these rooms," he whispered. "If he's keeping her here, she won't be in the places where he does business."

Face nodded, but didn't speak.

The room was easy to find, but the door was locked. Murdock stepped aside and tiptoed down the hallway, leaving Face to work on the doorknob. Further on down the hall, the next thing he came to was a long, well-lit wrap-around that overlooked an empty, sparkling clean foyer. Two guards were stationed at the door, sitting and talking quietly. Murdock ducked back out of sight.

By the time he got back to the room, the door was open. He followed Face inside, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of turning the light on, Face opened the curtains to let the dim light from outside filter in. Murdock went immediately for the filing cabinets as Face planted the bug inside the phone. Several minutes later, having rustled through the desk, Face joined him.

"Find anything interesting?"

Murdock shook his head. "Either this guy doesn't keep records or he doesn't keep them here." He sifted quickly through another folder before carefully setting it with all its contents back into the cabinet.

"He's got to keep records," Face whispered back, glancing around. "Probably in his safe."

"Well, they ain't here…"

Murdock continued to shuffle through the uninteresting papers. Warranty information on various household items and diagrams of buildings that he guessed Corrolini owned. Tax information – somewhat interesting but all so beautifully doctored that there was no indication Corrolini was involved in anything but legitimate business trading. Receipts from charitable donations and estimates for construction work. The files were well-organized and yet random. But one thing they had in common: there was nothing illegal about any of them.

"Bingo."

He turned and saw Face with his hand inside of the safe that he'd located inside of the closed doors at the bottom of a shelving unit. Figuring that Face's discovery had to be more interesting, Murdock shoved the papers back into their folder and closed the drawer. He crossed the floor in a few short steps and crouched down. "Whatcha got?" he asked, grabbing some of the papers still left inside.

"Contacts," Face answered, distracted by his find. "The people he's selling to."

"Face?" The quiet voice through the radio startled them both, even as low as it was turned.

Face reached with one hand to grab it. "Yeah, Hannibal?"

"Keep your head up. Corrolini just passed us on the road and he's got one hell of an entourage with him. Did you plant those bugs yet?"

"In the office," Face answered, looking over the papers. "Not the study."

"Any idea if the girl is there?"

"No. Murdock is checking the rooms on the second story right now." Face glanced at Murdock, and he nodded before heading to the door. "I'm getting pictures of these contracts. Then we'll head down to the study."

**1970**

"This will have to be quick," Face reminded.

"Hey, I know the drill," Murdock answered, lowering into the naval base with a careful eye on the group of soldiers who hadn't yet registered that the sound of his chopper was a little too close to just be flying overhead. "You two just make sure you get it hooked up right."

"Oh, we will," Cruiser called back over the deafening sound of the propellers overhead. "This ain't the first time we've done this."

Holding the chopper at a steady hover, twenty feet above a bulldozer, Murdock waved out the side of the chopper to Face. While Face repelled down and he and Cruiser worked on attaching it to the hoist, Murdock had nothing to do but to watched the confusion in the team below. They were about two hundred yards away, no more, surrounded by pristine heavy machinery. The supply yard was full of it. If he'd had to guess, Murdock would've bet that the young men who stood gaping at his chopper were the engineers in such short supply.

By the time the ranking officer had started toward them – probably to ask what the hell they were doing, as this was not where they should be picking up equipment even if they had authorization for it – Face and Cruiser had the hoist fastened.

"Let's go, Murdock!" Cruiser's voice came through the intercom.

Murdock lifted away smoothly, carrying the bulldozer with Face and Cruiser below him. He really hoped that they'd secured that hoist well.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**1985**

"What did you find?" Hannibal asked as Murdock and Face ducked down behind the shed at the far north side of the lawn. "Did you get the receivers planted?"

"Piece of cake," Murdock smiled.

"We also found his business records," Face added. "Photographed them. This guy's got a whole smuggling ring going. All kinds of stuff, going both ways across the border."

"He's also got a lot of legitimate businesses, too," Murdock said. "Charitable donations, pays taxes on his American properties, owns a lot of small businesses."

"And probably has those small business owners backed into a corner," Face continued. "We listened to his answering machine. Somebody owes him money."

"And the girl?"

Murdock shook his head. "No sign of her. But there were a bunch of places we couldn't get to. Too many guards."

"You got in and out clean?"

Face and Murdock exchanged glances. "Well… we had to break a window," Face admitted. "In the bathroom."

"Skylight."

"But as far as the office and the study, we put everything back the way we found it."

"We should get back to the van," BA said firmly. "Those dogs are gonna come back around again pretty soon."

"What does your gut tell you about the girl?" Hannibal asked, glancing back and forth between Face and Murdock. "With all this security, is he keeping her here?"

Face shrugged. "Anything's possible. It's really hard to tell. But we're going to need an invitation if you want us to poke around anymore."

"If she is, there's not _that _many guys in there," Murdock said. "Even with the ones that came in with Corrolini. We could take them."

"But if we bust in there without even knowing for sure she's there…"

"Alright," Hannibal nodded. He didn't want to take a risk of going in and tipping this guy off that they were after the girl. "Let's get out of here and see if we can arrange an invitation."

"Right."

Heads down and hunched over, Face and Murdock followed along the path that Hannibal and BA had already scouted, back to the van and where Alan was waiting.

**1970**

"Bulldozer," Face presented with a broad smile, gesturing to the equipment that Murdock had set just outside the wire. Captain Poll stared. "Corrugated tin is on its way from DaNang, and you'll have your 50s by tomorrow afternoon."

"Wow," Poll laughed, glancing at Hannibal. "Can I keep him?"

Face smirked.

Standing just behind Face, hands in his pockets, Murdock looked at Hannibal. "Colonel, there's a bridge we flew over 'bout five clicks away." He glanced at Poll. "Your recon teams got any idea what they might be usin' that for?"

"Only use I know of for bridges is getting from here to there."

"Or there to here," Hannibal added, seriously. "You got a demo man on any of your teams?"

"I do," Poll answered hesitantly. "But he just got in this morning. I can't send him back out yet."

"Alright, then I'll do it. Face, Cruiser, gear up. Murdock, how are you on fuel?"

"A-okay, Colonel. Just fueled up."

"Good. You can drop us off a little closer. Save us some time." Hannibal turned to Poll. "I'll need a few of your Yards. BA will stay and help you clear out the area. We're only here until tomorrow morning, and then we have to move on. But we'll try and help you out as much as we can until then."

**1985**

Back at the van, Alan met them outside. "What did you find?" he asked eagerly. "Is she there? You guys went quiet after a while."

"We don't know if she's there," Face answered, shrugging his shoulder out of the M-16's holding strap. "We're just going to have to wait and see."

"Wait?" Alan repeated. The look on his face was a mixture of nervousness and distrust. "Wait for what?"

Hannibal looked back at him and smiled. "Wait to see what he plans to do with her," Hannibal explained, "when he doesn't get you."

"So we're just supposed to wait here?" he demanded.

"That's the plan," Hannibal answered. "Though we should probably think about going and getting something to eat sometime soon…"

Alan straightened. "Look, this might not be all that important to you," he snapped. "But that's my little girl in there! I can't just sit here on my ass and wait! She could be dying! Right now!"

Hannibal watched him calmly, arms across his chest and leaning on the side of the van. "Sergeant," he started, his voice equally calm but with an air of authority. "You came to us for help. If you want our help, we do this our way. Otherwise," he shrugged, "we walk away right now."

"It's not like we'll be losing all that much," Face said flatly. "Seeing as we're not even getting paid for this."

Alan turned and paced a few steps, then felt his pocket for his cigarettes. "Well, maybe I should go in there," he suggested as he lit one. "I mean, it's pretty likely they'd take me to wherever they're holding her, right?"

" It's a possibility," Hannibal nodded. "But we need to know more before you go and knock on their front door."

"Like what?" Alan demanded. "What do you need to know?"

"Like how we gonna get you out," BA answered roughly. "You go in there now, we can't get you out, they just kill you."

"And her," Murdock added quietly, brow furrowed as he stared down at the ground.

"Well, at least you'd know where she is."

"How would we know that?"

"I could…" Alan trailed off as he realized he'd not thought of that yet. "I could wear one of those little transmitters."

"It won't transmit no two miles," BA informed. "Not one small enough to hide."

Alan growled, and hit the van with the side of his fist. "Then what are we supposed to do!"

"Hey, man!" BA warned. "Jus' settle down."

Alan dropped his head forward, resting it against his forearm. "I just want her back," he whispered. He sounded broken.

"If she's alive, we'll get her back," Hannibal assured him. "But you have to trust us. Otherwise… we can't help you."

**1970**

"Aw, sweet!" The young pilot's eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning as they came to rest on the brand new, shiny plane parked at the end of the landing strip at Qui Nhon. "Wanna go for a ride, colonel? Let's go find us some of those VC mother fuckers!"

Colonel Smith raised a brow, amused by his initiative, and eyed the plane for a moment. "What'd you have in mind, Captain?" he asked through the cigar.

Murdock didn't slow. He ran to the plane and ran his head along the warm metal along the underside of the wing just as if he were caressing a lover. "Man, I would love to have a plane like this," he sighed. "Just take off over the mountains and never look back…"

Hannibal paused near the front of the plane, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "Sounds great. Until you run out of fuel."

Murdock smirked as he looked back at him. "Minor detail." He turned and walked down the length of the plane, inspecting it. "Did you know that in the States, every other mile of the interstate system has to be straight? For planes to make emergency landings."

"I didn't know that," Hannibal admitted.

"Yep. There's rules about bridges, too." He opened the engine compartment and smiled broadly. "Gee, it's all clean and sparkly still. How long ago did we get this plane?"

Hannibal shook his head. "Not sure."

"We've had her three days."

Both men turned at the unexpected voice, thick with a Texan drawl. Hannibal smiled, apparently recognizing the man, but Murdock was unfamiliar. He was a soldier - dressed in olive fatigues – and probably an officer from the way he carried himself. He was still too far away for Murdock to see the emblems.

"General," Hannibal greeted, offering a hand that the older man shook.

Murdock stood up a little straighter as the general's gaze turned to him. "So you're Murdock," he said, shaking his hand.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Ross Westman. Heard a lot about you."

Murdock was sure his eyes widened a little, but he smiled nonetheless. "Pleasure to meet you, sir." The smile turned more subtle as he realized just who he was talking to. "I understand I owe you quite a debt of gratitude for helping me out of that mess at A Shau."

"Ah, that was nothing." With a twinkle in his eye, Westman exchanged knowing glances with Hannibal. "You should've seen the strings I had to pull for your Lieutenant Peck."

Hannibal chuckled, but didn't offer any more explanation. Brows raised in amused curiosity, Murdock made it a point to remember to ask Face about it later. In the meantime, Westman was eyeing him with a devious smirk on his lips. "You know how to fly this thing?"

Murdock chuckled. "All planes fly the same, sir. Some just fly faster than others."

Westman laughed. "That's true, that's true." He put one hand on his hip and the other on the plane. "You wanna take her for a ride, Captain?"

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Oh, hell yes."

"Let's go, then," Westman invited. "Thought I heard you say something about killin' us some VC. And then you can drop me off at Pleiku. Got some business to tend to there."

**1985**

"This whole situation is bad for business."

Face's eyes opened at the first sound that came through the headphones. "Hey, guys! He's in the room."

It took only seconds for Hannibal to reach for the other set of headphones. But the man who answered did so in a string of rapid-fire Spanish. Hannibal dropped the headphones again. "BA!"

Startled by the urgency, BA appeared in the open doorway of the van and took the headphones Hannibal shoved at him. "Where's Murdock?" Hannibal asked, switching places to give BA a seat.

"Right here, Colonel."

Face handed his headphones over as well, and Murdock slipped into the van, putting them on.

"_Por supuesto es malo para el negocio_!" A door closed, and an angry man heaved an angry sigh as he sat down near the receiver. The man's voice rose to a yell as he continued in rapid Spanish, pounding on the desktop - a sound that rattled deafeningly in the headphones. Murdock jumped. "_Como diablos está que bien para el negocio!_"

"What is he saying?" Hannibal asked.

"Uh…" It took Murdock a minute to slip into the role of a translator.

BA was faster. "He got a guy in Argentina who wants a car tomorrow afternoon," BA relayed. "It's bad for business if he can't get him that car."

Murdock closed his eyes, concentrating on the sing-song tones of the northern accents. "Guy in there say's they'll find it," he translated.

"Find him," BA corrected. "They talking about Alan."

Murdock glanced up at Alan, who was standing in the open doorway between Face and Hannibal. "They want the car you stole."

"What kind of car was that?" Face asked.

"It was the 1984 Saleen Mustang prototype," Alan answered. "There's only -"

Murdock held up a hand to quiet him as the men in the room began again. "_Tal vez todavía podemos conseguirlo._"

"Maybe they can still get it."

"_¿Cómo?_" Corrolini growled. "_¿Cómo espera usted conseguir aquel coche en menos de veinticuatro horas?_"

"How are they supposed to get the car in less than twenty-four hours?"

"I still think he'll show." A third voice, in English, startled Murdock. He'd only thought there were two men in the room. "We've got his daughter."

"Third guy speaks English," BA informed. "He thinks you'll show 'cause they got your daughter."

Alan straightened noticeably, but remained quiet.

"I told you. I don't care about that son of a bitch. I want the car!"

"Well, maybe he actually has the car."

"If he had, he would've brought it here."

"Not if he thinks we're going to kill him."

"I am going to kill him. If I wasn't, why do you think I would have hired that crazy _mercenario_?"

Murdock and BA exchanged brief glances. Then Murdock looked to Alan. "He's hired someone to find you."

"Maybe we can boost one of the other two," one of the men suggested. "We know where they are."

"In twenty-four hours?" Corrolini reminded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I don't even have the manpower for that! I still have to find a man to replace Parker!"

"My brother could do it, Mr. Corrolini." The voice belonged to the man who'd spoken only English. "He got that Porsche for us when Rayner fucked up last month."

"Alan, come here," Murdock gestured, slipping the headphones off his head. "You recognize this guy's voice?"

As Alan listened, Murdock relayed all of what he'd just heard to Hannibal and Face. "Sounds like Kyle Jackson," Alan finally concluded. "He's got a brother named Chris who's a car boost, too. But Chris doesn't work for Corrolini. At least, not officially."

"Do you know if Corrolini has ever _met _this Chris?" Face asked.

"Not as far as I know."

"They gonna try and get Chris to steal this car," BA informed, still listening to the conversation inside.

Hannibal smiled broadly. "Great. Now all we need is that car. And a willing soul to pose as brother Chris." Without even looking to him, Hannibal put an arm around Face's shoulders.

Face sighed. "Right."

"That's… not gon' be easy," Alan warned, wary of Hannibal's confident smile. "There's only three prototypes of that car. One of 'em is on a exhibition floor in the GM building in Detroit. There's no way of gettin' it outta there. The other one, I couldn't even find."

"What about the one you stole?" Face asked.

Alan stared at him incredulously. "That one's in a police impound in LA. If they ain't come and got it already."

Face smirked, a knowing, confident glint in his eyes. "Perfect."

"Good," Hannibal nodded. "Murdock, Alan, go with Face. BA and I will stay here and monitor what's going on inside."

**1970**

If Murdock was uneasy about flying a four star general right over the heads of the VC, he didn't show it. Of course, once they left the ground, it was difficult to think of Westman as a four star general. In his dirty fatigues with a little 5.56mm CAR-15 assault rifle and a small case of fragmentation hand grenades, he gave the impression that he was just another soldier, sitting next to Hannibal in the backseat of the plane. The two of them laughed like old friends – they probably were – and Murdock smiled. It was so unusual to see anyone after a certain rank who didn't flinch at the thought of holding a gun.

Murdock had to wonder what kind of trouble would be had if anyone found out that a man this important _was _holding a gun…

"See 'em?" Murdock asked as he flew low enough to skim the trees. In a small clearing were at least a dozen trucks filled with bags and bags of rice.

"Yeah, I see 'em!" Westman called back, aiming the gun out of the large window.

"Hold on a minute," Murdock warned.

"For what?" Hannibal asked, reclining comfortably in seat next to Westman.

"I gotta circle 'round the other side of 'em and you two gotta switch places," Murdock said. He grinned as he glanced into the back and exchanged brief glances with the colonel. "First time I did this, we had the target on the left side instead of the right. Catridges outta the gun came back on me. Went right down along my neck."

Hannibal laughed. "Nice."

They switched. Murdock circled back around. "'Kay, hang on," he warned as he dove down in a low sweep, tipping the plane as the AKs began firing up at them.

Westman pointed his weapon out the window and emptied a cartridge of ammo on the figures in the trees. Not a single one of the sporadic, answering rounds from the AK-47s made it to the plane. Laughing, Westman pulled back into the plane and reloaded.

"Hot damn!" he cried. "I ain't done this in a long time!"

"Just make sure you don't get shot," Hannibal warned, closing his eyes and relaxing again as Murdock dipped the plane once more in an acrobatic show. A loud war cry from the pilot's seat made a smile creep across his face. The captain was in his element.

The problem with the plane, of course, was the fact that it only held so much fuel. With a careful eye on the gauges, Murdock kept them out over the jungle for as long as he safely could before landing in the Air Base in Saigon and refueling. An enthralled General Westman thanked him for the ride and waved his goodbyes to Hannibal as he headed away. Murdock still wore a broad smile as Hannibal climbed into the co-pilot's seat.

"I kinda miss the planes," Murdock admitted as soon as they were in the air again. "Alan an' I used to do this all the time. Fly outta Nha Trang and go check out all the areas where the VC were hiding."

"Must've been a nice diversion from the jungle patrols between missions."

"For him," Murdock nodded. "For me, it was nice to get away from all the dead friendlies bleeding all over the back of my chopper."

It was the last thing Murdock said until they touched down in Qui Nhon again, after a noticeably uneventful flight. As he climbed out of the plane, Hannibal watched the captain carefully. "What's on your mind, Murdock?"

It was painfully obvious that there was something on his mind. He wasn't surprised that Hannibal had noticed it. "I'm thinking about expanding my job description," Murdock declared, hopping down from the plane and brushing his hands together in conclusion of a job well done.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal raise a brow. "Expanding it how?" he asked, curious.

"Well, not officially," Murdock grinned. "But I was just thinking…" Hannibal watched as Murdock did a walk around the plane, checking it for damage. "I've always had quite a bit of free time. And you've always done quite a bit of extra training. IA drills and stuff…" He glanced over to see how his implication was being received so far.

"You want in on IA drills?" Hannibal seemed terribly amused by the thought.

"Well, lemme put it this way." Murdock poked his head around the side of the plane and hung there, watching the colonel. "We went down in the jungle an' I didn't have a clue what to do about it." He frowned deeply. "I never felt so much like a hunted animal in my life. Now, I'll do my part in makin' sure I keep the bird in the air. But if it ever happens again…"

He let the suggestion hang in the air as Hannibal studied him. He was probably trying to determine whether or not he was actually serious. He had to be out of his mind to make such a request. But Murdock was dead serious, and he was willing to pour blood, sweat, and tears into proving it.

"Alright," Hannibal agreed hesitantly. He was still staring at him with a skeptical look. "Oh-six-hundred tomorrow, you're welcome to join us."

Murdock grinned as he nodded. "I'll be there," he promised.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**1970**

Learning to be a part of IA drills had sounded like a good idea at the time. It had also sounded pretty simple. One person steps left, the other steps right, and you fire in succession. Murdock had not anticipated it to be something that was practiced for hours and hours on end.

Training for recon in the relatively safe areas immediately surrounded the base had also sounded like a good idea. But that was back when Murdock could still feel his legs, when it didn't hurt to breathe. Face down on the floor – he hadn't even made it to the bed – in the team room at Tay Ninh, Murdock was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. The humidity stuck his hair to his neck and had soaked his fatigues with sweat. There was a rock underneath him. It hurt.

He was hearing laughter – women's laughter – but he knew that couldn't be right. There were no women at all on this base. He was exhausted and delirious, and apparently having auditory hallucinations. The corner of his mind that should have been concerned about that was instead amused. I wonder if any of them can sing…

"Come on, Murdock. Up and at 'em."

Oh God, somebody was moving him. He groaned loudly as he was dragged to his feet by a man on either side. "Nooo…"

A familiar laugh. He forced his eyes open and saw Cruiser. "Come on," he ordered. "Start walking. Your feet will figure it out."

Cruiser was right. As a hand on his back shoved him forward, Murdock's feet figured out what to do. Instead of falling on his face, he walked robot-like toward the door. "Where are we going?" he mumbled. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"You survived a whole week of recon training," Face pointed out. Wow, when had Face gotten here? Trying to figure that out took Murdock's attention off of his next step, and he almost crashed to the ground. His muscles were in full rebellion.

"Now it's about time for us to buy you a drink," Cruiser finished.

Murdock groaned again. "I don't want a drink," he slurred. "I want a nice comfortable bed… and a fan… maybe even air conditioning."

"The officer's club is air conditioned."

"Ugh… noooo…"

"Come on." Face chuckled, putting an arm around the taller man's shoulders. From the way he walked, it was pretty evident that Face had already had a few drinks. "Look at it this way. Next week, you'll have some endurance built up."

"Next week?" Murdock repeated weakly.

"We're going into the An Lao Valley in the morning. Bright Light."

Murdock stopped, finding a moment of coherence. "Alright, guys. Going somewhere means I have to fly." He turned right back around and headed for the hootch, but the two men grabbed him on either side. He gave a pathetic cry, like a whining child. "Guys, I need sleeeeeeep."

"One drink," Cruiser bargained.

"And just remember, Murdock…" He turned to look at Face, who was smirking at him. "This whole thing was your bright idea."

"Don't remind me," Murdock groaned.

The women in his head laughed a little louder.

**1985**

"Can I help you?"

Face smiled as he approached the guard. "I'm Roy Brewski, executive director of recovery operations for Ford, this is James Prower." Murdock gave a tight smile. "I believe we spoke on the phone."

The guard eyed them warily. "Sorry, I'm afraid it wasn't me you spoke to."

"Ah, well." Face didn't let it slow him down in the least. "That's okay. I'm here to pick up the 1984 Saleen Mustang."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "I was told there wouldn't be someone here for that until tomorrow."

"Well, after I spoke to the division head, I decided it would be best if I came right away." He smiled and leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "You know how it is. Everybody's just so uptight about all this and it's going to be my ass if it doesn't get resolved pretty quickly. I figured it was worth the red-eye flight to get it taken care of this afternoon."

The guard studied him for a moment, saying nothing. As Murdock kept a tight smile on his face and his eyes on the man, he saw the movement behind him – the figure on the security camera cutting the links in the fence. A second later, he slit the tarp wide open and stepped into full view of the camera with only two black bandanas to hide his face and hair – one above and one below his eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir," the guard finally offered, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I can't let you in here without talking to my supervisor first."

"Well, get him on the phone," Murdock ordered, his tone distinctly more irritable than Face's. "We don't have all day."

Face shot him a glare, then smiled again at the guard. "Sorry. He's just a little irritable. It was kind of a rough flight and the airline lost our luggage."

"Which they wouldn't have done if we'd just carried it on with us like I told you!" Murdock snapped.

The guard watched, dumbfounded, as the two of them shared a brief argument. Finally, Murdock turned away and Face turned back to the guard. "Sorry about that," he smiled. "Your supervisor?"

"Actually, he's probably at lunch now."

"Well, could you check?" Face offered a pleading look. "We're really kind of in a hurry to get back with this car before anything else goes wrong."

On the black and white monitor over the guard's shoulder, Alan pried open the door of a white car and slipped into the driver's seat.

**1970**

"Bright Light duty" was so named after Operation Bright Light, the running SOG operation of extracting downed pilots over North Vietnam and Laos. It might've just as easily been named for the fact that every light seemed blinding when one had gone an entire week with only short cat naps. It was during one of those catnaps – at 0400 hours – that Hannibal walked out of the Tactical Operations Center and let out the call, "Everybody get your shit together. We're movin' out!"

In spite of the physical exhaustion, Murdock could honestly say that he enjoyed Bright Light. Once every few months, his team pulled a week-long shift. Once they "clocked in", they had to be ready - 24 hours a day - when a call came in to fly into enemy territory and pull out their men – usually under heavy fire. It took only minutes for the NVA to organize an attack on a downed pilot. It sometimes took thirty minutes to an hour before the call for help even got to the base.

There was an HH-3 – Jolly Green Giant – helicopter on an airstrip fifty feet away, waiting for him. The peter pilot, "Snap", ran up ahead as Murdock continued at a more leisurely pace. He had no strong opinion about the chopper, one way or the other. Heavy and tough-built, it could take on a ridiculous amount of gunfire and still fly. The trade off, of course, was that it wasn't very maneuverable. At least, not as maneuverable as he would have liked it to be.

The pre-flight check was just a formality. This bird was ready to fly at any given moment, and he knew it. By the time he swung up into the left seat, Snap had finished his inspection. He was strapped into the right seat as the last of the team was stumbling into the cargo area, dragging equipment with them. Snap was awaiting orders, and Murdock made a circular motion with one finger on his right, the single to go ahead and crank.

"Clear?" Snap yelled.

"Clear!" Hannibal's voice echoed in the intercom.

Murdock looked back as Face tapped his shoulder and took a piece of paper from him. Coordinates and the radio frequency and call sign of their target. "Thanks, Faceman." He broke open his map case as Face turned back and, using his flashlight, plotted the intersecting lines of their target area as the chopper clattered loudly.

Eyes still on the map, he keyed the intercom. "Y'all ready?"

"Let's go, Murdock!"

He nodded to Snap. "Let's go."

As the chopper lifted, he tuned in the VHF radio and transmitted their lift off time and atmospheric conditions back to the TOC, then focused in on the FM radio where their target's frequency was locked in. "Lost Sheep, this is Howlin' Mad One-Niner, en route to your location - copy?" As he waited for a response, he ground the knobs on the UHF radio, tuning into Red Dog GCA's frequency. The ground controlled approach had tactical radar; they could see where Murdock could not, and it was always the slightest bit comforting to know that if they went down for any reason, their location would be known as long as they were on Red Dog's screen.

"Red Dog, Howlin' Mad One-Niner off the pad for Echo, Romeo, Mike. Request you stay with us."

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, this is Lost Sheep – acknowledge?"

Murdock flipped the switch back to talk to the downed pilot. "Readin' you loud and perfectly clear, Lost Sheep - standby."

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, Radar Contact. I have you off Hell's Helo pad heading 070 and standing by." Ground control approach was online.

"Red Dog, Howlin' Mad One-Niner. Hold fire west?"

"One-Niner, standby."

Murdock paused to take a breath in the momentary lull while the orders were transferred to cease all artillery fires until further clearance. From time to time during the night, 105 cannons on the west end of the base fired off at predetermined targets, just to keep the NVA and Cong off base. Murdock didn't want to be hit by friendly fire.

"One-Niner, Red Dog. 'Check-fire' west approved. Over."

"Red Dog, One-Niner. Thanks a bunch." A gesture cleared Snap to climb and start forward.

"One-Niner, Red Dog. Have you turning through heading three-zero-zero. Say altitude. Over."

"Climbing to 1500. Over."

"Red Dog, roger. Have a nice flight, Howlin' Mad."

Murdock clicked the radio twice in acknowledgment, then turned briefly looked back at the Green Berets and the full crew of Nung soldiers all loading, checking, and situating their full array of weapons.

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, Lost Sheep. Say location. Over."

Murdock's eyes flickered briefly to the map spread out over his lap. "One-Niner is about fifteen out. SITREP?"

Lost Sheep paused for a moment before returning the situation report. "No chance in hell I can get you a decent slash and burn, One-Niner. It'll be tight. But so far I'm not under fire." That was a pleasant surprise. "Just let me know when you want flares."

"Just keep it on the down-low, Lost Sheep. Standby."

It was several minutes of flying in silence before another voice came on the radio. "Howlin' Mad One-Niner, this is Sandy Two-Five, over."

Murdock smiled. He didn't know the A-1 Skyraider pilot face-to-face, but his call sign and voice was familiar. "Good morning, Sandy! Pleasure to have you onboard."

"Pleasure to be here, Howlin' Mad."

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner. Sandy Two-Six. Over."

"Mornin' Two-Six! Say position. Over."

"Sandy flight of two is north, northwest, heading two-eight-zero degrees at 3200 feet. Light 'em up, Howlin' Mad, and give us a visual."

Murdock turned to Snap and nodded. "Go 'head." With the flip of a switch, Snap turned the landing light on, just long enough to get an acknowledgment before he flipped it back off. They were over the jungle now and a landing light was a good way to get shot out of the sky. But weighed against the alternative of a midair collision, it seemed an acceptable risk.

"Sandy Two-Five, we have you in sight."

Several minutes later, they were approaching their target. He knew it before he even heard the call. "One-Nine! One-Nine! Lost Sheep! I hear you overhead! Taking fire!"

Murdock could hear the rattling of the machine guns in the background of the radio. "Just hold on, Lost Sheep, we're comin' in."

It was easy to tell when they were nearing their target; the sky lit up with anti-aircraft shell bursts. Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock saw his copilot tense up completely, and his breathing staggered. In another few moments, his hands would be shaking. He wasn't quite ready for dodging incoming rockets.

"I got it," Murdock said, slipping his hands and feet into position. The peter pilot's shoulder's sagged with relief as he immediately let go. He was glad not to be operating the chopper; Murdock was glad to be at the controls. The adrenaline was a drug he'd become addicted to long ago.

"A-Team!" He yelled behind him as loud as he could. "Ready to drop! LZ is red! Repeat, it is red as in the blood is flowing freely!"

Ordinarily, a landing zone under fire – at least in a search and rescue - would be a good indication that it was time to turn around and go back. They simply hadn't made it there fast enough. But Murdock knew they weren't going back. Not with Hannibal as the team's one-zero.

Sure enough, Hannibal poked his head up into the cockpit, holding on to the back of the seat tightly as the aircraft rocked back and forth, avoiding the smoke and flares. "He still alive down there?" he called.

"Far as I know." Murdock turned his radio mic back on. "Lost Sheep, we're right over you. Send up a flare on your position." Then quickly, he turned back to the VHF radio. "Sandy boys, fuck 'em hard an' fast."

The instant the flare lit up, the Skyraiders shot by on either side, spraying the perimeter. Murdock positioned over the spot and hovered low as the team in the back repelled down into the jungle trees. It was a delicate balance to keep the chopper steady as the weight shifted and they went over the side, two and three at a time. They stayed tethered, lines tight as they dropped down. It was a dangerous practice – if Murdock had to move, they would be lifted off their feet like it or not. If they got tangled in the trees, the line would have to be cut with them still on it.

"Lost Sheep, your one way ticket outta here has landed!" he called.

"I see you! I'm coming!"

Snap was wide eyed as he watched the rockets around them. Murdock's eyes stayed peeled as well, breathing slow and shallow as the Sandy boys swept by again. "Go! Murdock! Go!"

He pulled up – straight up, so as not to smash his guys on the ground into nearby trees. Once they'd cleared the treetops, it was a mad race for the nearest place he could land to get the men safely back into the chopper. Only then would he know if the extraction had proved successful. But he suspected it was a complete success. For some reason, where Hannibal Smith was involved, the crazier the drop, the more likely it was to succeed.

**1985**

"This is crazy!" Face yelled. "You mean to tell me that while we were standing right here talking to your security guard – the _security _guard, of all people! – that someone broke into the police impound and stole the car that we flew a thousand miles to get?"

The security guard was noticeably silent as his supervisor stood beside him, trying to calm Face down. "Now, sir, I'm sure he won't get far."

Actually, he was probably halfway to Mexico by now.

"He'd better not! I want the name of your supervisor! Your highest authority! I'll sue!"

"Roy, let's just get out of here." Murdock, having spent all of his anger, sounded tired. "Let Mr. Prentice handle it."

"Oh, Mr. Prentice will hear about it alright!" Face yelled. "So will my lawyer! And my senator! I'll have you all fired! I'll see to it!"

Murdock was already leading him away as Face called his last few insults over his shoulder. As they walked back to the rental car, Murdock got into the driver's seat. Still muttering curses loud enough for the two men to hear, Face got in the other side of the car and slammed the door.

"Think we gave him enough time?" Face asked as Murdock started the car.

"Depends on how fast he can drive," Murdock answered, pulling out. "With the traffic."

"Traffic shouldn't be too bad right now."

Murdock smirked as he pulled out of the garage and into the bright sunlight. "We hope."

Face straightened his tie, then opened the window and rested his head back on the seat behind him. For a few minutes, it was quiet as they headed for the freeway. "Hey, Face?" Murdock finally asked.

"Hmm?"

"You remember when I crashed that chopper into the Bong Son River?"

Face blinked as he looked at him, startled by the question. "What? Where the hell did that come from?"

"Just wondering."

"That's got to be the most random thing you've brought up in a long time, Murdock."

"Sorry. I was just wondering…" He paused for a long moment as he looked up at him. "How did you ever get that cleared up?"

Face frowned deeply, studying him. "You're asking me to remember my lines from – what? – twelve years ago? Thirteen?"

"Just wondering."

"Why?" Face looked away, shifting uncomfortably. "What difference does it make? Why the hell are you thinking about that now?"

"I don't know."

"I don't either. We're stealing cars, not crashing choppers. What's the connection?"

Murdock laughed. "Geez, Face, you sound like you're actually getting defensive about it."

Face turned and glared at him. The burning gaze made Murdock's skin crawl. "Sorry," he offered, flexing his grip on the steering wheel.

"I don't remember, Murdock," Face finally answered as they pulled onto the freeway's onramp. "It was a long time ago."

Murdock nodded slowly, and fell silent as he watched the cars in front of him.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**1970**

They'd started drinking at about 0900. By noon, they all had a pretty good buzz going. On stand-down for the day, with no risk of being called out to fly, Murdock had readily accepted the invitation to join them. Think of it as a celebration, Cruiser had persuaded, though he couldn't think of a damn thing they should be celebrating.

BA, as predicted, had declined. And there was no telling where Hannibal even was. Probably in the little shantytown just outside the base, eating Chinese soup from the local restaurant. They had the weekend to go anywhere they wanted inside of South Vietnam. The team had chosen to stay at the FOB in Dak To.

"Man, remember when this was all we did?" Face recalled, wistfully studying the ceiling of the NCO club from where he lay on the floor. If anyone was wondering why he was down there, no one asked.

"What do you mean?" Murdock asked, watching as a young soldier in civilian clothes barely made it to the back door before vomiting. RT Mexico was on stand-down too.

"Recon," Face sighed, tipping up the bottle and nearly choking himself as he tried to swallow while lying down. He coughed as he sat up a little, supporting himself on his elbows. "Remember, Cruiser? You did recon, didn't you?"

"Four months," Cruiser confirmed.

Face took another drink and lay back again. "Week-long stand-downs… Covey always overhead…"

"Covey is usually still overhead," Murdock reminded, taking a drink.

"Yeah, but we never really get to meet him. Or anyone for that matter."

Murdock tipped his head, studying him. "What do you mean?"

Face shrugged, eyes down as he swirled the liquor in his glass. "Recon is a pretty… close-knit group. Everyone on base knows everyone else. It's weird without that."

"That's the way the Mike Force is, too."

Cruiser laughed as he turned onto his side to face Murdock. "The hell do you know about Mike Force?"

Murdock smiled slightly and took another drink. "I used to hang out in Nha Trang a lot."

Face took another drink, and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. "Well," he glanced at Murdock briefly, "I don't know how much you did with SOG before you got assigned to us…" Face flicked his lighter, cupping his hand around it as he lit the end of his cigarette. "But what we do isn't exactly normal."

Murdock smirked. "I got that."

Face grinned, and slipped his lighter back into his pocket. "There's three divisions: Command Control North, Central, and South. Three bases: Kontum, Da Nang, Ban Me Thuot. Usually two or three Forward Operating Bases for each of those, and then the camps on the borders where you're actually on standby. That FOB is 'home'. There's usually thirty or forty Americans there, and they'll be there waiting for you to come back. And anytime someone's MIA or KIA… that whole camp feels it."

"See, it's different for us now," Cruiser added, propping his head up on his arm. "'Cause everybody knows us, but no one really knows us. If we die out there, they'll tack our names on to 'Old Blue' and pass a few stories around about our legendary feats. But as for people who'd really feel the loss? I could probably count them on one hand. Most everyone I knew from recon is either dead or back home by now."

"There's advantages and disadvantages," Face said, watching the soldiers at the other table as they finished a long-played game of monopoly. He glanced up at Murdock. "We're probably the most single-minded unit in all of SOG. You work with the same guys – even the same pilot," he gestured at Murdock, "- for so many drops in so many different situations… you learn to rely on everyone else's senses and instincts as if they're your own. And you appreciate them for everything that they are. Losing any one would be like losing a limb."

"We definitely do appreciate each other more than the average team," Cruiser agreed. "I'll give you that. But it'd be nice to be acknowledged outside of the team, too."

"Hey!"

The shout from the other table made all three men turn.

"Y'all wanna join us for a recon cocktail?"

Cruiser was on his feet instantly, eager for the camaraderie of "normal" recon men. "Hell, yes."

"Recon cocktail?" Murdock asked Face under his breath as he followed behind.

Face only chuckled.

As they pulled up chairs around the small wooden table, Murdock watched the first of the three unfamiliar men – the one who'd called them over - pour booze into a beer pitcher. "I'm Lefty Saltner, by the way," one of the other two introduced. "RT Mexico."

Face shook hands and exchanged smiles. "Face," he offered, then pointed out his team. "Howlin' Mad Murdock, Cruiser."

Murdock offered a brief glance at Lefty, but was more interested in the concoction of vodka, gin, rum, scotch, and beer that had been dumped unceremoniously into the pitcher.

"Warrant," the other man introduced himself. He smirked as he glanced at the one man who still didn't have a name. "Our uh, bartender there is Stormy."

The bartender – Stormy – had added bourbon, brandy, and several variations of schnapps to the pitcher and was now topping it off with red wine. Murdock watched him impassively. He recognized this game now. He'd seen it a hundred times before in Nha Trang, seated around similar tables with members of the Mike Force. He was glad he was still maintaining the buzz that had started earlier; it would make that shit easier to drink. He downed the rest of his glass in a few gulps.

As Warrant and Cruiser exchanged a few names of bases and SF soldiers, in search of a common ground, Stormy added a pinch of his belly button lint, "Just for flavor." Murdock shook his head slightly. These men were slightly more drunk than he was.

The pitcher was first passed to Cruiser. He tipped it back without hesitating, then passed it to Murdock who did the same. He could hold his liquor. As strong as it was, he'd would probably hold out longer than any of them except maybe Cruiser. The three from the other team had already had quite a bit, and Face wasn't much of a drinker.

Murdock passed the pitcher, and it circled around until it ended up back in Stormy's hands. He took a drink, then frowned. "This wasn't mixed well enough."

In the time it had taken that pitcher to circle the table, Murdock was feeling the effects. He blinked hard to clear his vision, and almost wished he hadn't as he saw Stormy open his fly and use his penis to stir the concoction. Murdock had to admit, it was the first time he'd seen anyone do that during this little game. Once again, Cruiser didn't hesitate. But this time, he added his own ingredient. He spat in it before handing it to Murdock, who followed suit.

All the way around the table, the men drank and spat into the pitcher. By the time it got back to Stormy, he hesitated for just a second. Murdock smirked at him. "Pussy."

Cruiser chuckled.

With a glare at both of them, Stormy downed a gulp of the spit and liquor. Then he grabbed the ashtray off the table and unceremoniously dumped the contents into the pitcher before handing it to Cruiser with a wicked smile. Now it was Cruiser's turn to hesitate.

Murdock was so amused by the look on Cruiser's face, he didn't even notice Hannibal walking into the room until he'd walked right up to them. "Anyone seen BA?" he asked.

Turning his head, Murdock noticed the way his balance wavered just slightly and put his hands flat on the table. "I think he's catching a nap."

The three men from the other team didn't even acknowledge the intrusion, their eyes on Cruiser as he worked up the courage to take a drink. A daring smile crept across Cruiser's lips as he turned and held up the pitcher. "Hey, Colonel, care to try our recon cocktail?"

The RT Mexico men straightened as they realized the man in the sterile fatigues was a colonel. Without batting an eyelash, Hannibal took the pitcher, quickly downed half of what remained – at least five big gulps – and handed it back to Cruiser before he turned and walked away. Murdock couldn't quite contain the smile that found its way to his lips in response to the beautiful performance. He'd never been so proud of a commanding officer in all his life. Not a flinch - and unlike the rest of them, Hannibal was stone cold sober. It was truly a thing of beauty.

"He's a _colonel_?" Lefty asked, stunned.

"Yeah," Face answered with a grin. "Hannibal Smith. RT Cannon."

"Our CO," Cruiser added proudly.

Warrant's eyes widened noticeably. "You guys are with RT Cannon?"

"Small world, ain't it?" Murdock smirked.

Cruiser nodded his agreement, lifted the pitcher with a merry, "Cheers!" and poured the concoction down his throat.

**1985**

Murdock was laughing as he stepped out of the silver rental car and closed the door behind him quietly. As he exited the other side, Face's attention was immediately on the sleek and sparkling car parked right next to the van. Murdock walked to Hannibal. "No problems," Murdock declared.

"At least until tomorrow," Face added, apparently listening even though his attention seemed firmly fixed on the car. "When the real representatives show up."

"I didn't have any problems, either," Alan assured, watching Face as he circled the car. "I took the back roads once I got out of LA. Probably only saw twenty or so cars the whole way down. None of them cops."

"This mercenary Corrolini hired is named Joseph Linus," Hannibal informed.

Face looked up immediately. "Joseph Linus of the Wondersun Brothers Gang?"

Hannibal smiled. "You've heard of him."

"Sure I've heard of him." Face walked around the car, crossing his arms with a worried look on his face. "I also did some business with him in 'Nam. The guy was a lunatic."

"I resemble that remark," Murdock replied, indignant.

"He ran speed out of Japan during the war," Face explained. "Dishonorably discharged in 70, and he started the Wondersun Brothers Gang with his best friend and their girlfriends. Cocaine smuggling. Last I heard, he's a suspect in almost two dozen murders."

"Twenty-five," Hannibal corrected. "I had Amy look him up. Apparently, his supplier in Mexico is a close personal friend of Corrolini's."

"The guy is nuts, Hannibal," Face reiterated. "He was messed up even back then. I can't imagine how strung out he is now."

Murdock leaned on the side of the van, arms crossed over his chest. "Messed up how?"

Face chuckled nervously. "I think he slept a grand total of five hours through his whole tour. You know what that does to a person's brain?"

Murdock spent a few minutes very carefully considering what that would do to a person's brain.

"Based on what we've heard," Hannibal continued, "I'd say it's a pretty good bet that Corrolini has never actually met this guy face to face. If one of us goes in there, pretending to be Linus –"

"By somebody, you mean…?" Face interrupted with a look that was somewhere between worry and disgust.

"I could do it," Murdock offered.

Hannibal smiled broadly. "I thought you might find it amusing."

Murdock grinned back.

"So Murdock goes in with me," Alan suggested, "and Face and Hannibal go in with the car?"

"Uh, how about Hannibal goes with the car," Face suggested. "He's expecting one delivery man. Not two."

"Good idea," Hannibal nodded. "You can go with Murdock."

"And what are we supposed to do when we get Alan in there?" Face asked, frowning deeply. "Ask to go with him to inspect the holding facilities?"

Hannibal smile and clapped a hand over Face's shoulder. "I'm sure you'll find a way. You're resourceful!"

Face sighed. "Naturally."

Hannibal looked past them, into the back of the van. "BA, we'll need you to do something about their phone lines. We don't need Joseph Linus or Chris Jackson calling while we're in there."

"Right," BA answered.

"You really think we're just gon' walk out of there?" Alan asked. The crease in his brow made it clear that he was not confident in this plan.

"Well if we don't," Hannibal grinned, "at least we can say we tried."

Murdock hid a smirk at the look of worry on Alan's face.

**1970**

There were only two small squads engaged with an entire company of NVA. One of those squads was his team. Raining fire from heaven could not have stopped Murdock from commandeering the med-evac Huey sent out after them, much less a little exhaustion. The FAC had reported that every single one of the men were wounded…

"It's too hot," Snap protested. "There's no way we'll make it down there."

"I have it," Murdock answered, taking control of the chopper.

The younger pilot took his hands and feet obediently away from the controls, but his protests didn't die down. "Sir, we can't go –"

He was cut off by a cry that sounded like something out of a "cowboys and Indians" movie. Too stunned and horrified to respond, he braced himself as Murdock lowered the aircraft into the combat zone, still moving forward as he dropped down into the open field. There was a group of men huddled and waiting on the opposite side. Among them, Murdock had already identified Face – and he was still standing. Armed with that bit of information, he was taking this chopper down if it killed him.

The bullets pinging on the sides of the Huey didn't escape unnoticed. The gunners – one on either side – let out a cry to match the pilot's as they opened fire on the enemy below. Murdock heard Snap cry out. He didn't have time to see what was wrong with him. Suddenly, as if all at once, the control arm stopped responding at the same moment that the back of the chopper burst into flames.

"Snap! Pull up! Pull up!"

No time. At least they weren't far off the ground. The impact was jarring to say the least – six thousand pounds falling from a height of ten feet. But it didn't catch fire. Yet.

_ Run away! Run away! _A thousand tiny voices echoed in chorus as Murdock sprang instinctively out of the harness, out of the side of the chopper, onto the ground. It took him a few seconds to come to his senses and realize what had happened.

He sprang back up into the cockpit and reached across, grabbing the shoulders of the unconscious copilot. He dragged him out and onto the grass, looking up only briefly as a figure appeared beside him and dove into the back of the chopper. Only a few seconds later, the man re-emerged with one of the gunners draped over his shoulders. Hard to tell if he was dead or alive, but he was bleeding. More immediately recognizable to Murdock was the man who was carrying him. "Face!"

Face dropped to a crouch beside him and looked across the open field. It was at least 200 yards to the tree line. "How many of these choppers are you going to crash, you crazy bastard?" Face demanded.

"Well, that was number three," Murdock yelled back. "But that first one doesn't count."

"Save it for someone who cares, Murdock."

The exhaustion of the past week and a half vanished in the adrenaline that was burning hot in his veins. He threw Snap over his shoulders in the same carry Face was using for the gunner.

"Stay down and right behind me!"

Using one arm to hold the man across his shoulders, Murdock grabbed his pistol with the other. Then he took off after Face as fast as his legs could carry him. They ran a few yards, fell into the tall grass, caught their breath, then ran again.

By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, under the covering fire of the SOG Yards, Murdock had emptied his revolver. He tossed it aside at the first sight of a bigger gun, in the grip of a dead Yard. Wrenching it out of the body's arms, he returned to the front line and dropped to the dirt next to Face with a huge grin on his lips and a crazed look in his eyes.

"Let's kill these motherfuckers!"

**1985**

"We should kill 'im." The wild, wide-eyed look of pure psychosis was disturbing. "The bounty said dead or alive, right?" Murdock turned all the way around in the seat to look at Alan, who was staring at him as if he was an alien come down from another planet.

Perched on his knees and leaning over the back of the seat, Murdock flipped open his pocketknife and a handcuffed Alan leaned back a little as the psycho traced the side of his face with it. "Hey, watch it!" Alan glared, leaning away.

But the blade followed him. Murdock smiled wickedly. "Bet you wish you were nicer to me when we were kids, right about now."

For just an instant, Alan felt a flicker of real fear. Murdock could see it in his eyes as he caressed the man's throat with the knife. In the driver's seat of the rental car, Face sighed audibly. "Save it, Murdock. It's not like we have that far to go."

"All the more reason why I should work fast," Murdock hissed in a voice that sounded more like a demon than a human being. Alan swallowed hard.

The car pulled to a stop at the gate, and Face rolled down the window. "Hi."

"Can I help you?" he asked in hesitant English, guessing at the blond driver's first language.

Before Face had a chance to answer, Murdock was across his lap, winding his way out the car window to meet the guard eye to eye. "_Diga a Señor Corrolini que Joseph Linus esta aquí_," he growled.

Alan knew very little Spanish, but the threatening tone followed by maniacal laughter was enough to make his skin crawl. Apparently, it had the same effect on the other man because he slid the window of the guard shack closed before reaching for the phone.

"Murdock, will you get off of me?" Face muttered, giving him a shove towards the passenger seat. He shot a glare briefly in his direction as the guard poked his head back out.

"_Vaya_," the guard ordered as the gate swung open. "_Él espera para usted_."

Murdock, unable to sit still, jumped up into the open window on his own side of the car. "Forward ho!" he yelled, holding the top of the car as he leaned back and swung his arm forward.

As they drove through the gate and down the winding road, Face reached over and grabbed his pant leg to get his attention. He slid back down into the seat. "When I said the guy was nuts," Face started. "I didn't mean _this _nuts."

"Maybe." Murdock grinned, wild eyes dancing. "But Corrolini won't know that…"

**1970**

"So what the hell happened to you?" Murdock asked, leaning against the wall a few feet from where Cruiser was sitting. Another medic was fastening a sling over his arm.

"I got shot, you crazy bastard," Cruiser answered. "What does it look like?"

Still hyped up on adrenaline, Murdock could barely stand still. He fidgeted – hands in his pockets and then out, leaning and then standing straight. He wanted to pace the room, to run laps, to do anything at all to dispense this energy. He'd never been on the ground in combat – not like that. He understood now why they did it. No drug he'd ever tried could measure up to this high.

"You gonna be alright?" Murdock's concern was genuine, but minimal. Cruiser was still conscious and coherent. The damage wasn't that bad. But it was bad enough to warrant a sling. He couldn't be back out in the field until he got rid of that.

"It's broken pretty bad, but I'll be fine," Cruiser said confidently, looking away. "I needed a few days off anyhow."

"You gonna take a few days somewhere else?"

Cruiser shrugged. "Nah, might as well just stay here. Got nothing better to do."

"Murdock?" He looked back as Hannibal approached, and clapped a hand over his shoulder. "Good job out there."

Murdock grinned. "Yeah, that was… pretty wild."

"You keep it up," Hannibal smirked, "and we might just have to put an M-16 in your hands more often."


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**1985**

They were fifteen minutes behind Hannibal. Hopefully, that would be enough time for him to get his part of the plan situated. As they pulled up in front of the house, Murdock flickered a glance to the garage. The doors were closed, and it appeared empty. A man was approaching from the door of the mansion.

"Sr. Linus?" he asked Face.

Murdock grabbed the roof of the vehicle, pulled himself up into the open window. "I am Joseph Linus!" he declared loudly, before Face had a chance to respond.

The man blinked in surprise, not sure how to respond. He just stood still and stared at Murdock crawled out of the car window and dropped to the ground. Murdock opened the back door, grabbed Alan by the shirt, and dragged him – stumbling – out of the vehicle. As soon as he regained his balance, Murdock shoved him against the front of the car. He caught himself on his hands, and looked up.

"Your prisoner, señor," Murdock smiled wickedly.

The man's eyes widened, and he jumped back as Face stepped out of the driver's seat. "Should we bring him inside?" Face smiled. "Or just stand here staring at each other all afternoon?"

**1970**

Warrant Officer Charles "Snap" Pelt looked nervous as all hell. Murdock couldn't blame him. The poor co-pilot, still nursing his wounds from the crash that had snapped Cruiser's arm in half, was stuck in a UH-1 with Murdock and two stir-crazy adrenaline junkies in the back. Luckily for the young co-pilot, it was just a "fun run" for all of them, a way to get off base.

They'd not only volunteered, but Face had actually pulled some strings to get them clearance. The commander wasn't trying to antagonize them, Murdock knew. He just didn't want to take the risk of pissing off General Westman by getting the general's favorite SOG unit killed on a mission they shouldn't have been authorized for in the first place. Face had assured him that they would proceed with the utmost caution. And it was just an ash-and-trash. Nothing even remotely dangerous…

In fact, Murdock was itching for something more exciting. He'd volunteered to make the run for the same reason Face and BA had: sheer boredom. Of course, Murdock had an additional reason, too: avoiding more IA drills with Hannibal.

They'd been locked up on a base near the An Lao Valley for three days now, drilling and prepping, but unable to move until the REMFs sorted through the bureaucratic bullshit keeping them from their next assignment. The three days had passed slowly – but for the exhausting drills and a five hour patrol that Murdock had dragged along on - and the anxious team had finally managed to talk the base commander into allowing them to make a few simple runs to the outlying camps.

It probably helped that the commander was realizing that the longer they stayed on his base, the more creative they got. They had nothing to do but training and – once they'd all beaten that horse to death - entertain themselves with beer and pranks of varying degrees of decency. Cruiser was particularly good with inventing new and interesting ways to spend time. The camp had seen everything from an impromptu fireworks display that had everyone convinced half the soldiers they were taking enemy fire… to the giant snake that had been placed ever-so-carefully in the irritable and unfriendly mess sergeant's bunk. Murdock was pretty sure the commander was glad to see them go, if only for a few hours.

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, this is Phoenix GCA – do you copy?"

Leaning back and looking out the open cockpit door at the passing canopy below, Murdock was enjoying the breeze and the crystal-clear visibility as the UH-1 headed out to one of the camps with a cargo full of water and miscellaneous odds and ends that had been requested. He didn't look away from the scenery as he reached up to where he knew the radio would be latched. "Howlin' Mad, readin' you loud and clear. Go 'head Phoenix."

"We've got quite a battle about five miles north of you. They're requesting casualty extraction."

Murdock groaned, but kept it out of his voice as he answered back. "Copy, Phoenix. Is the LZ red? 'Cause you know, Captain Jeffries has this thing with the color red an' he told us not to go near anything that ain't bright, happy, springtime grass green." As he turned his attention to the north, he realized he was already able to see the choppers buzzing around the area.

"LZ should be green, One-Niner," ground control reported. "You'll put down west of the fighting by at least 500 yards."

"Oooh, a whole five hundred?" he smirked. "Sounds like a good time to me. I have a visual on the combat zone an' we're goin' in! Howlin' Mad, over and out."

For the peter pilot's benefit, he pointed in the direction of the battle, and the bird turned gradually towards it as Murdock flipped the radio over to the intercom. "Casualty pickup," he informed his two gunners.

For a moment, there was no answer. Then a simple, "Copy," from Face. He wouldn't have expected much more. Picking up dead soldiers was nobody's cup of tea.

The entire area around the combat zone was buzzing with activity. The rattle of chopper rotors and AK-47s. The LZ was west of where the heaviest fighting was, and it was wide and clear enough that Murdock felt no need to take the controls away from Snap. As soon as they touched down on the soft ground, Murdock's eyes shifted to the battle-worn soldiers crouched beside the corpses. Soaked in sweat and covered in mud, they carried the bodies to the chopper in a solemn procession. Though they were moving quickly, they still took time to say their good-byes. It would be the only chance they had to do so.

Two of the bodies were bagged, but the others were uncovered. They must have run out of bags for them. Bloody and mangled, they were loaded into the back of the Huey just as they were. The familiar, sickening smell of death made Murdock's stomach turn. He would never get used to that smell. The lifeless bodies, oozing blood and other bodily fluids onto the floor, were his least favorite cargo by far. There was no hope for them. No amount of skill, effort, or determination could save them now. Murdock could travel as fast or as slow as he wanted to the base. It didn't really matter.

"You'd better get outta here, man," one of the weary soldiers advised, yelling up at him over the beating of the chopper blades. "There's snipers around here."

"Thanks, soldier," he called down. "Hang in there."

The man offered a weak, forced smile as he stepped back. "Clear?" Murdock called back.

"All clear on the left!"

"Clear on the right!"

Murdock signaled to Snap and he lifted off, heading for the medical detachment pad back at the base. Once there, he watched the solemn procession as the bodies were unloaded, leaving a grotesque pool of blood and body parts in the back of the Huey. Noting the slightly-green peter pilot, he offered to fly solo to the river so they could clean the back of the Huey. But Snap declined the free pass, and stayed put as Murdock requested clearance to fly to the river.

Snap made a reasonably smooth landing on the sandbars in the Bong Son River. He hadn't said a word besides the requisite acknowledgements since they'd picked up the bodies. He didn't speak now, either, as they washed the blood and body parts out of the back of the chopper as much as possible with the muddy water and a few plastic pails.

"You okay, kid?" Murdock asked as he threw another bucket of water into the back of the chopper. It washed through to the other side, turning red as it went, and dropped back into the shallow river, carrying the bloody remains downstream.

Snap looked up and forced a smile. "Never seen it up so close before, sir."

Murdock smiled faintly. It was standard practice to stick the youngest, most inexperienced pilots with the most seasoned ones, but he still hadn't quite figured out why Hannibal had pulled this kid into "the team" proper. Snap still had to fight the urge to salute anything in fatigues, a habit left over from his training. It drove Murdock nuts. Unless it was an ass-chewing or a first meeting, salutes and titles were not used in Vietnam. It felt… awkward.

"Well, I have seen it up close," Murdock replied. "Lots of times. And it still bothers me." He heaved another bucket of water up into the chopper, and it sloshed out the other side. "I think if it ever stops bothering you, you ain't even human anymore."

"Hey, Murdock, check it out!"

Murdock glanced up and shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Face. "Present company excluded," he smiled politely.

Face was holding up two standard issue army air mattresses from the supplies that had never made it to their destination. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he intended to do with them.

Neither BA nor Snap were up for a swim. Murdock didn't feel particularly up for it either, but something in the young lieutenant's eyes made him choke on his protest. Face hid pain well, under a smile that he'd not yet learned could be misconstrued as shallow and even disrespectful. But really, the Lieutenant used the same escapism that they all did, just in a slightly different way. Instead of escaping to alcohol, or to the comfort of like-wounded companions, he escaped somewhere into himself where none of this bothered him. But that hiding place was becoming more and more transparent to Murdock; he'd familiarized himself with it long ago and even used it for his own protection at times.

So into the water the two men went, stripped to their shorts and splashing like carefree children in an effort to forget everything they had experienced in the past few days, weeks, months… The river was shallow, probably only ten feet at its deepest, and the current was weak. Though the rationale had remained unspoken, Face had been absolutely right – the cool water was a welcome relief, soothing both to their overheated bodies and their overly traumatized minds.

As Face reminisced aloud about long-gone days back in the States - mostly about the beautiful round-eyed women - Murdock's own thoughts wandered. He would die here, he was pretty sure. But each new day that he survived, he had to think of what it would be like to return to the USA – to "normal" life. Face had certainly thought about it, even if he would freely admit that he didn't ever expect to see "home" again. To Murdock, "home" was no longer a welcoming thought. He'd experienced the emotional confusion of returning to normal life. He wasn't looking forward to experiencing it again. Even if he went back to the States, even if the war ended… he knew deep inside that he would never leave the military. He couldn't. There was no other place for him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a chopper somewhere overhead, and he looked up. It wasn't uncommon for the Hueys to come here to clean out their cargo areas, but it seemed odd that they were setting up for a landing so damn close to where they could clearly see there was another chopper already parked on the sandbar. Out in the middle of a river about as wide as a football field, Murdock shielded his eyes from the blinding sun as he looked up at the hovering aircraft coming down almost directly over them.

"What the hell do these assholes think they're doing?" he thought out loud. He was sure the pilot overhead could see them in the water.

"Hovering," Face answered brilliantly, the top half of his body lying across his raft.

Suddenly, Murdock realized exactly what they were doing. His eyes went wide. "Shit!" he cried. "Get to the sandbar!"

There was no time, at that point, to even begin the mad dash to the sandbar. The chopper positioned itself not more than ten feet upriver and a foot above the surface of the water. Hurricane force winds from the rotating blades of the helicopter ripped the surface of the otherwise calm river. Both men could do nothing but hold on for dear life as they were sent flying downstream on the rafts. It was an effort just to keep their heads above water as they skidded over the surface, at the mercy of the wind created by the Huey that was following them. Finally, the bird lifted away after pushing them a good 150 yards from their original destination. It returned to land about fifty feet from Murdock's chopper.

The two soldiers were left to paddle and walk against the current, all the way back to where they had started. Murdock was irritated – even pissed off – but he had never seen Face quite so vocal about his contempt for the offending party. It was almost comical. The man had vented his anger and adrenaline on scores upon scores of VC with only a few four letter words here and there. But turned on the pilots of that chopper, his tongue was like a whip. As Face yelled obscenities drawn from the furthest corners of his vocabulary, conjuring up words Murdock had never even heard before, Murdock found that his amusement almost overcame his own frustration.

The men in the intruding chopper were laughing as the two of them swam past. The pilot gestured his apology with a shrug as they passed the bird, as if to say that they hadn't seen them. It only seemed to infuriate Face more. He told them things about their mothers, their sisters, and their dogs, shouted out little-known facts about their anatomies, and finally called them something that rhymed with "yogurt" before they reached the Huey.

Once inside, to the confusion and bewilderment of BA and the peter pilot, Face tucked himself out of sight of the other chopper and started laughing.

"Can you believe those guys!" he cried. "I mean, what the hell was that?"

"What happened?" BA demanded.

Face turned and stared at him for a moment as Murdock strapped himself into the left pilot's seat. "Did you not see that? They pushed us halfway down the river!" But his laughter made it clear that he was not nearly as infuriated as he'd led the other team to believe.

Murdock had a few ideas of his own for how to communicate his appreciation for the prank. The peter pilot was barely strapped in when the chopper was light on the skids. "Clear behind us?" Murdock called back.

Face was already near the door. It only took him a second to look out to the back of the chopper. It took BA a moment longer; he'd been attempting to secure the tool box in the cargo area. He raced to the left side to look back and gave a quick, "All clear!"

A dark shadow passed over Murdock's eyes as the corners of his mouth quirked up into an evil smirk. He hovered just above the water for a moment, feeling the weight of the Huey, the balance, the pitch… When properly executed, a rear takeoff was as beautiful as it was difficult. The cyclic, pedals, and collective pitch controls all had to be perfectly synced with the pilot. He would have to slam everything all at once, just right, to get the chopper to turn 180 degrees on its vertical access. And he would do this just a few feet from the Huey parked nearby, and scare the hell out of them. He knew he could pull it off. He'd done a rear takeoff a hundred times before.

He keyed the mic as he smirked at the laughing bastards only about 20 yards away. "Hey, Face! Watch this!"

Suddenly, the chopper lurched. The peter pilot cried out in surprise as he realized they were heading – backwards – directly for the chopper behind them. Face and BA, in the back of the chopper, had no idea what was about to happen until it was happening.

It was about that same time Murdock realized he'd made a mistake. The Huey's tail was exceptionally low at a normal hover, and four feet off of the sandbar only took him two feet off the water's surface. As he'd applied rear control pressure, the tail had dipped even lower. He realized all of this in a split-second flash. Before there was time for so much as an "oh shit", the tail rotor hit the water. At the speed the blades were rotating, it was like hitting a cement wall. The rotor buckled and warped and detached from the rest of the Huey… along with the entire gearbox.

There went his anti-torque.

With the engine opened up at full power, the chopper whipped violently in the opposite direction from the spinning blades above. The 75 pound toolbox, still not secured in the back of the chopper, hurled forward between Murdock and the peter pilot, and smashed through the front windshield, taking half of the instrument panel with it before it crashed into the river somewhere below them.

Murdock's co-pilot was panicking. Having been repeatedly trained for tail rotor failure, Murdock knew to cut the engine and land in an autorotation. But before he could do that, he had another problem. Without the weight of the rotor and gearbox on the back end of the chopper, they were suddenly extremely nose-heavy. He had to be at least somewhat level before cutting power or they would crash. If he could just get level, he knew he could still land safely.

In another two seconds, in spite of his efforts, it didn't matter anyway. The chopper tipped a little too far to the left in its spin and the top rotor hit the water's surface. The Huey ceased to fly and they slammed hard into the water – six thousand pounds of metal dropped from a height of ten feet. The sound, and the jarring impact, was mind-numbing.

As Murdock realized he was still breathing, he could hear Snap screaming - a continuous yell of, "Oh God! Oh Jesus!" But if he was yelling so enthusiastically, he couldn't be too badly hurt.

Murdock set to the task of pulling himself out of the mangled chopper. In only a few seconds, he had help from the outside; BA was jerking on the door almost frantically. Realizing it was jammed, Murdock pulled the emergency release, and the door fell off its hinges. BA pulled it back and jumped out of the way as it splashed into the water. "You alright?" BA was wide-eyed. Frantic. "What happened? You okay?"

"Oh… just a slight miscalculation," Murdock answered casually.

"Miscalculation?" BA yelled. "Miscalculation! Are you crazy? You could've killed us all!"

"Yeah, uh… Help me outta here, will you?" He grinned as BA took his arm. "You know that's JP4 jet fuel you're standing in, right?"

BA almost lost his grip on Murdock's arm as he jumped in surprise, looking frantically around at the fuel-tainted river water. Knowing the danger made him work that much harder and faster, and in no time at all, he'd dragged Murdock out of the seat, and both of them waded to the shore. Once there, Murdock looked back to see Face and Snap swimming away from the wreckage. The wrong way.

"Hey Faceman!" he called, cupping his hands over his mouth for a bullhorn. Face and Snap both looked toward him, wide-eyed and horrified. "Swim upstream, jackass! Not downstream!"

They reversed their direction but they went wide – out into the deeper water so as to avoid the fuel streaming into the river. As they came closer, Murdock started walking - a few paces down the edge of the water, toward the other chopper and the crew that was standing stock still, awestruck by what they had just seen. "What was it I was supposed to watch, Murdock?" Face called as he came within reasonable talking distance.

"Yeah, how'd you like that takeoff?" Murdock grinned back.

Face laughed, but it sounded a little more hysterical than humored. "Jesus, Murdock, how are we supposed to explain this? You know what it took to get them to let us off that base for a simple supply run? And now you just crashed their chopper in the river!"

"We…! I…!" Snap had no words as he stumbled to shore. "I could…! I could lose my wings for…! But I didn't…!"

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it, kid," Murdock assured him with a wave. "I'll take care of it."

"You'll take care of it?" Face challenged with a disbelieving laugh. "I'm the one who stuck my neck out to get us this chopper!"

"Alright, so you'll take care of it," Murdock shrugged. Before Face had a chance to respond, Murdock raised his hands to his mouth again and shouted at the top of his lungs at the other chopper. "Hey you! Assholes downriver!" The entire crew still stood gaping. "That's JP4 you're standing in, you idiots! Anybody got a match?"

Murdock chuckled as he watched them look at the water all around them, as if they hadn't figured out yet that they were standing in jet fuel. "Look at those fools," he grinned at the peter pilot. "Can you believe they're just sitting there?"

"You're the fool, Murdock!" BA grabbed his shoulder, jerking him back a little. "You coulda killed us all!"

"But I didn't," Murdock reminded with a wide grin. He pulled away and BA let him go, not entirely sure what else to do with him. Murdock immediately turned back to the other chopper crew, jumping at the opportunity to further antagonize them. "Hey, stupid! I think I left the battery switch on!"

At that, the crew scrambled to their places and prepped for dust off. Murdock laughed.

"Geez, Murdock…" Face had his palm against his cheek as he shook his head, surveying the damage. That chopper would not fly again without some extreme repairs. Maybe never…

Murdock chuckled as he glanced around him. "Seriously, anybody got a dry match?"

BA grabbed his shirt again. This time, his other fist was raised.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**1970**

"He wants us to what?" Face laughed.

"Hannibal, that don't sound good," BA added in a worried tone.

"Good?" Face cried. "It doesn't even sound possible!"

Murdock watched silently, eyes shifting back and forth as the startled reactions resonated with his own unspoken one.

"What brilliant mind thought this one up?" Face demanded.

"Colonel Morrison," Hannibal answered offhandedly.

Face stared. "And Westman wants us to do it?"

"Actually, I don't think Morrison ever fully explained the details to him."

"I don't know, Hannibal." BA sounded more deeply concerned about this assignment than any other he'd ever been briefed on. "Robbing the Bank of Hanoi…"

Murdock's gaze lowered. "That could be misconstrued as violating the terms of warfare in so many ways," he added, under his breath.

"Uh, yeah, and – bigger problem - we're Americans, remember?" Face glanced back and forth. "You think we can just walk around on the streets of Hanoi and not be noticed?"

"Yeah, man. Won't we kinda stand out?"

"It's the Tet New Year," Hannibal reminded. "The streets will be crowded."

"With Vietnamese," Face pointed out. "North Vietnamese. The bad guys."

"Oh, come on, guys!" Hannibal laughed, surprised by the hesitation in his do-or-die unit. "What have we really got to lose here?"

"Our lives?" Face offered cynically.

"Our military careers?" Murdock added. And how is that any different from any other assignment?

"Look, Sam Morrison may not be everyone's favorite officer," Hannibal continued, undeterred. "But he's still a damn good one. Our orders are to follow his orders. And besides, it'll be fun!"

Murdock hid his face with his hand. Fun. Robbing a bank so far into enemy territory that it would take miraculous precision timing to extract them without running out of fuel. Standing on the streets of Hanoi as Americans and hoping not to get shot. To say nothing of the danger of flying a Huey in their airspace. Oh yes, that sounded like loads of fun.

"There's no way," Murdock concluded, hung up on all the practicalities. "No way in hell."

"It got nothin' to do with what we think'a Morrison," BA added. "It's just 'cause the mission is insane."

"Might I remind you," Face pointed out, "that you're the only one here – besides Murdock - who even has a working knowledge of Vietnamese? And Morrison wants this to be a strictly American operation? What, is he trying to sabotage us?"

"Or maybe he just doesn't care if we all get killed over there," BA suggested.

"Which makes me think Westman probably doesn't know all the details here," Face added.

"I put a call in to Westman," Hannibal informed. "But right now, he's back in the States. And if we want the advantage of the crowded streets, we have to move tomorrow. First thing in the morning."

Murdock cleared his throat. "Okay, one question." All eyes turned to him. "One very important question: What kind of chopper did you request for this?"

"Does it matter?" Hannibal asked, reaching into his pocket for the orders.

Murdock laughed, without humor. "Fly a Huey over North Vietnam and I promise you we're going to get shot down. Fly anything else and there's no way in hell we'll have enough fuel to make it there and back."

Hannibal looked at the orders. "Kingbee," he answered, handing them to Murdock.

Murdock took them, but didn't even look at them. "And just how are we planning to refuel said Kingbee?"

"Well, I guess we'll have to find a way to take fuel with us."

Murdock stared, eyes wide. "You're going to carry JP4 in the cargo bay of a Kingbee?"

"Only on the way there," Hannibal smiled.

Murdock stared at him incredulously. "Okay…"

"Think of it as a challenge, guys," Hannibal grinned, turning to rest a hand on Murdock's shoulder. As he looked back, he cast the same smile in the direction of both Face and BA. "Our last big hurrah." He exchanged lingering glances with Face, and Murdock sat up a little straighter as an entire conversation passed through that look. "According to Morrison, this could help end the war. And I know everyone's in favor of that."

Face frowned deeply, cutting his gaze to the floor. "Given the way the war is currently going, I'm not so sure that's a good thing. For us, at least."

**1985**

Murdock led Alan down the hall and into the study, pushing and shoving with threats of feeding him his feet – one toe at a time – if he didn't move faster. A few steps in front of them, Face kept stride with the man who was leading them through the house. The uneasy host glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in a little closer to Face.

"Is he… always like this?" he asked.

"Ah, well." Face shrugged. "He got a little uh… traumatized in the war. You understand."

It was the last thing that either of them said before they reached the door. The host knocked, waited for the answer, then stepped inside, ahead of Face. "Mr. Corrolini? Mr. Linus is here to –"

Murdock shoved past them both, throwing the door open in a flashy entrance that nearly knocked everyone else off of their feet. "To present your prisoner!" he cried.

Still holding Alan by the shirt collar, Murdock jerked him into the room and shoved him forward. Unable to catch his balance, Alan stumbled and fell. Face watched him hit the carpet, cast a quick glance at Murdock – who seemed to enjoy taking his performance a little over the top – then looked at the surprised faces of the others in the room. There was one man behind the desk, and two men standing with guns drawn in surprise at the interruption. In a chair near the desk, Hannibal turned and observed the scene with apparent amusement, cigar in hand.

"Friends of yours?" Hannibal asked, casually, glancing back at Corrolini.

"More of an acquaintance," Corrolini answered coldly, rising from his chair. He flicked a glance at the two guards, and gestured at Alan. "Get him up!"

Murdock stepped back towards Face with a smile as the two men wretched Alan to his feet. Face closed the distance between them, standing just behind Murdock so that he could speak too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were almost enjoying this."

Murdock answered through the teeth of his smile, equally inconspicuous. "You have no idea."

"Mr. Parker," Corrolini said quietly as he encroached on Alan's personal space. "Nice of you to come by."

"Where is my daughter?" Alan demanded.

"Oh, she's fine." Corrolini smiled, a gesture that was almost polite. "I'm not a barbarian, you know. And I'm very sorry about your wife."

Alan struggled suddenly. The two men on either side of him tightened their grip on his arms, subduing him. "You bastard," he growled.

"Take him downstairs," Corrolini offered. "I'll deal with him later."

As Alan was led through the room and out the door, Corrolini's eyes turned to Murdock. "Mr. Linus?" He extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Murdock shook his hand, wild eyes flashing. As Corrolini caught the look, he shrunk back just slightly. He turned then to Face. "And you are?"

Face opened his mouth to respond, but didn't have a chance before Murdock cut him off. "Where's the money?"

Corrolini stared for a moment, taken aback by the abrasiveness.

"Ah, why don't I go wait outside?" Face suggested, gesturing over his shoulder. "Since this is a… business matter between the two of you."

"Actually, I should get going, too," Hannibal added, rising to his feet. "Perhaps you could have someone show us both to the door."

Corrolini nodded with a smile. "Of course."

Murdock immediately took Hannibal's seat, leaning back and putting his feet up on Corrolini's desk. He regarded them out of the corner of his eye as he inspected his fingernails.

"Jose, if you will show these gentlemen out." Corrolini gestured to the man still standing near the door, then turned to shake Hannibal's hand. "Pleasure doing business with you. We'll be in touch."

"Of course," Hannibal smiled back.

Corrolini extended a hand to Face as well, though he still hadn't gotten a name out of him. "Pleasure," he offered with a smile.

Face shook his hand, then turned to the door, leaving Murdock in the room to keep Corrolini amused for a few minutes as they followed Jose back through the hallway to the front door. Once there, he turned them over to the two guards, then smiled and nodded his farewells. He disappeared down one of the hallways as one of the guards reached into the closet behind him. The other stayed seated, glancing only briefly at them before returning to his newspaper.

"Here are your weapons."

"Ah, thank you," Face smiled, strapping his holster around his shoulders. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hannibal did the same. Once he was situated, Face casually withdrew the pistol from the holster and, with a smile, pointed it at the slightly taller man's chest. At the same time, Hannibal had a gun to the seated man's forehead.

It took a moment for the reality of the situation to sink in for their two hostages. But when it did, their eyes went wide. "Now," Hannibal started as Face reached across and disarmed the guard standing in front of him. "They took Alan Parker 'downstairs.' If you would be so kind as to show us the way, we'd be much obliged."

**1970**

It was still dark when Murdock touched down in North Vietnam. The team had less than two miles to walk before they would hit the outskirts of Hanoi. Then they had to find the bank, formulate a plan, and execute it before returning to this spot. Then they would refuel the chopper with the canisters in the back – just as they were doing now – and fly back to Da Nang. If they were all still breathing at the close of this mission, it would be an incredible success.

"You are absolutely sure you only want six hours to do this?" Murdock yelled as he poured fuel into the chopper. He didn't like that they were standing on the ground in the middle of a jungle in North Vietnam. He didn't like that he was refueling hot with a jerry-rigged hose and gas can, spilling JP4 on his boots. He really didn't like that when he came back again in six hours, he would be doing this alone, and then waiting in a clearing – surrounded by jungle and deep in the heart of enemy territory – for the rest of his team.

"We'll be here," Hannibal assured him, clapping a hand over his shoulder.

Murdock cast him a worried look. "You'd better be." There were so many ways this plan could go wrong, he couldn't even count them all.

Hannibal reached for his cigar and Murdock's eyes widened to the size of saucers instantly. "Don't even think about it!" he cried, stock still.

Hannibal chuckled, and made no attempt to find his lighter. "Relax, Captain." Chewing the end of his cigar, Hannibal glanced around at his team, then back at Murdock. "You okay with this?"

"No," Murdock answered honestly. "Not in the least."

"Just hang in there, Captain. We're all going to take a few days off when this is over."

He was lying. Murdock could hear it in his voice. But instead of calling him on it, he forced a smile. "Right, Colonel."

Murdock looked them all over. Dressed in NVA uniforms with only AK-47s and small, over-the-shoulder packs for gear, they might have passed for enemy soldiers if they weren't so obviously Americans. Murdock shook his head. He hoped to God Hannibal knew what he was doing.

"See you in a few hours, Captain," Hannibal reassured, heaving the gun over his shoulder. He pulled his hat down low to cover his hair and as much of his face as possible. "Let's move out!"

**1985**

There were two guards in the security room, playing cards as they sipped black coffee. Face was relieved. He'd been fully expecting more of a challenge. With one hand at the gun behind Paul, Hannibal armed his other hand with Paul's gun and covered one of them while Face covered the other. By the time they even realized anyone had entered, they had no time to react.

With amazing efficiency and speed, Hannibal and Face disarmed, tied, and gagged all three men, taking their guns and their keys before moving across the hallway to the door that Paul had told them went down to the basement – the holding cell for both Alan and his daughter. It took longer than either of them would have liked to find the right key, and the door's hinges squeaked a little too loudly. Without a word, or a moment's pause, they started down the wooden stairs.

At the bottom of the steps, they stopped. The basement was dark and damp, lit only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. On one wall, there were thick wooden doors, old but not rotted. Holding cells – three of them. Hannibal and Face both scanned the room before they stepped out into it, into the open.

"Psst! Hey!"

Their heads and guns both turned.

"Over here!"

Convinced that they were alone, they lowered the guns. But they kept them in hand as they moved. Hannibal walked in the direction of the voice that must have been Alan. Face checked the next room over and found it empty. "Where is she?" Hannibal demanded as he shoved the key into the lock. For just a moment, the thought that she might not be here – and the dread that came with such a thought - flickered across his mind.

"Tia!" he called loudly.

"Shh!" The reaction was instantaneous from both Hannibal and Face.

"Geez, are you trying to get us killed?" Face cried, passing Hannibal just as he got the door to Alan's cell opened.

In the next cell, the last one, Face had just stepped up to look in the little window of the door when he was suddenly met with a pair of dark brown eyes. He blinked, startled to see her so close, then smiled. "Hello," he greeted. "You must be Tia."

Eyes wide, she nodded slightly, but didn't speak.

Face glanced to the side. "Keys, Hannibal?"

Hannibal's arm reached out the door and tossed them in Face's direction. Face could hear him coaxing Alan to his feet. "I think my arm is broken, man."

"Well, you don't need your arm to walk. Let's go."

Face tucked his pistol into the front of his pants and used both hands to unlock and pull open the door. Tia took a big step back as it swung open, staring at him with fear-filled eyes. He held out a hand, but didn't go in after her. "It's okay," he said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She was dirty, her hair matted and her clothes torn and bloody. It didn't look like her blood. Face suddenly realized that she'd probably held her mother while she died. "It's okay," he said again. "Please…"

"Tia?" Alan appeared beside him, looking into the room at his daughter. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get out of here."

The fear in her eyes was replaced with tears, and she ran the few steps to her father. "Daddy!"

"We've got to go," Hannibal reminded, on edge. He grabbed Alan's unhurt arm, prying it away from the man's daughter. "Plenty of time for family reunion later."

Face grabbed his gun again, and the girl's arm, pulling her along as he raced up the stairs. She was more than willing now, reassured by the sight of her father. Up the steps and around the corner, Hannibal suddenly stopped so fast that Alan ran right into him.

"Face, get them in the car," he whispered roughly. He exchanged quick glances with Alan. "Go with him and do _exactly _as he tells you."

As Face and the two prisoners disappeared into one of the rooms – from there they would leave through the window, Hannibal suspected – he tucked his gun away headed for the door. The muffled sound of the man locked in the coat closet near the door made him hesitate just for a moment, debating whether or not it was a risk to leave him conscious. But time was of the essence, and he kept walking, out the door and down the steps.

The man standing just outside the garage was surprised to see him leave the house without an escort. He didn't say anything, but Hannibal could see it on his face as he came closer. "I hope you don't mind," Hannibal explained, walking at a leisurely pace, "Jose had to use the restroom. He showed me to the door and I figured I could find my way from there." He held out a hand in greeting. "Chris Jackson."

"Wally," the man answered, leaving off his last name as he shook Hannibal's hand.

"You the man who's supposed to drive me out of here?"

"Yes, that'd be me."

"Excellent." Hannibal smiled, and gestured to the car parked in front of the garage. "Shall we?"


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

**1970**

0823. Murdock checked his watch as he headed away from the chopper. The B-team base that Colonel Morrison operated out of was larger than the little camps that he'd been stationed in – here, there, and everywhere across South Vietnam. Crossing from the landing zone to the general headquarters building, he was stopped along the way.

"Murdock?"

Startled and too deep in thought to even tell where the voice had been coming from, Murdock glanced around. His eyes came to rest on a familiar man, and the concern for his team – while still present – was pushed to the back of his mind where it remained a dull pain, nagging him.

"Carl," he greeted with a smile, reaching out to shake hands with the man. "Long time no see."

"Man, I have been trying to find you forever," Carl laughed, pulling Murdock into a loose embrace. He paused as he stepped back and looked the pilot over. "What the hell happened to you?"

"It's a long story," Murdock sighed.

"You just sort of disappeared off the face of the earth. You left the 20th?"

"Uh, yeah." Murdock cast a lingering look at GHQ. He needed to report to Morrison. "Yeah, it's complicated. Look, I've gotta go give a report but I should be back in –"

"Hey, wait, I got something for you." Carl had him by the arm, dragging him in the direction of the barracks.

"No, uh, really, I gotta go report back. I just got in, man."

"It'll only take a second," Carl assured. "It's just that I'm headin' out. I don't know when the next time I'm gonna see you is. Already been almost a year I've been tryin' to find you."

"What for?" Murdock asked, following reluctantly.

Carl didn't answer, just stepped up into the barracks and down the hall. Hands buried deep in his pockets, Murdock kept pace behind him. "Someone told me you got promoted," Carl said. His eyes swept over Murdock's shirt, but there were no patches there.

"I did," Murdock answered. "Switched to Army, too."

"Seriously?" Carl laughed. "Man, I never would've figured it. Your brother would shit a brick."

Murdock lowered his head, but didn't answer. As Carl turned into one of the rooms, he followed a step behind. Carl walked to one of the beds – Murdock presumed it was his own – and reached under it for an olive green pack. "Sorry to do this so quick but, heh, like I said. I'm headin' out and God only knows when and if our paths will cross again."

"It's fine," Murdock assured, glancing around.

"Here."

Murdock blinked as a wad of brown clothing was suddenly shoved at him. As soon as he touched it, he realized it was leather. "Your brother got this for you – don't ask me where or how – right before he…" Murdock glanced up and met Carl's eyes. The other man shifted uncomfortably, shrugging as he lowered his gaze. "Well, yeah. You know."

Frozen in place by an unexpected wash of emotion, Murdock stared down at the bundle for a moment before he unfolded it slowly. Black eyes stared up at him, and he found himself looking into the face of a tiger, printed on the back of the brown leather jacket.

"He didn't really have any other personal effects," Carl said quietly. "What he did have was shipped back to the States with his body. But I know he would've wanted you to have that since he… well, he got it for you in the first place. He was going to give it to you for your birthday or something. I don't really remember what."

Murdock swallowed hard. His mind was a wash of emotions he didn't know what to do with. Carl clapped a hand over his shoulder. "Like I said, sorry to have to do this so fast. But I… gotta run. And you gotta go give report. I'll try and catch up with you later?"

Murdock's feet were moving, but he wasn't entirely sure where he was going or why. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Sure…"

Outside. Morning sunlight. Carl left with a wave, heading to where his team was waiting impatiently. Murdock watched him go, then stared back down at the jacket in his hands, slowly unfolding it further and turning it. Alan had bought this? Alan had bought this for him?

_ "And you thought I didn't care…"_

He shook his head, shoving his awareness of that voice into a far corner of his mind. Still gripping the jacket, he glanced over at the large building he'd been heading toward, and suddenly remembered why. Holding the jacket in one hand, he walked toward GHQ, to Morrison's office.

It wasn't hard to find. He'd been there before. Down at the end of a vacant hall was a door that was cracked open. From the single voice inside, Murdock concluded before he had a chance to knock that the colonel was on the phone. After a brief consideration, he decided to wait.

Standing just outside the door, Murdock put his back to the wall and held his hands clasped in front of him, still gripping the jacket. He glanced down at it and felt his stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip-flop. Alan had bought this? Hesitantly, he lifted it again, studying the lines and creases of the American-made material. On the back, above the tiger, was a scrawled "DaNang 1970" in yellow letters. A bomber jacket. Wherever he'd gotten it, it must've cost him a fortune.

_ "Listen…"_

_ "They're whispering…"_

He lowered the jacket again, glancing down the long, empty hall. The choppy sound of Colonel Morrison's voice was the only thing he heard. Colonel Morrison... speaking in Vietnamese? Curious, but very much aware that he was eavesdropping, Murdock took a step closer to the crack in the door.

_ "Listen… listen…" _

"_Chung toi co mot thoa thuan_!"

_ "Listen…"_

"[We had a deal! I have upheld my end; now you will uphold yours!]"

Murdock could feel his posture straightening, shoulders pressing back. The tone of the colonel's voice made his skin crawl. The words didn't help much, either.

"[No, _you_ listen to _me_! I contacted you as soon as I was able. If it wasn't enough time, you just tell your men to move faster!]"

He paused. Murdock felt a flicker of guilt, and a growing awareness of what would happen if he should be caught eavesdropping on this conversation. He could feign ignorance and innocence as well as anyone, but it still wouldn't be pretty.

"[I could not possibly have known that Smith would leave so quickly.]"

Murdock's head snapped up so abruptly, he almost hit it on the door behind him. Suddenly, he cared very little about the consequences of being caught listening in on the private conversation. "[Listen, Cuyet,]" the angry tone was kept almost too low for Murdock to hear through the open door, "[you get your men out there to that bank, you take care of Smith's team, and you bring me my share of the money. I do not care how you do it. But if he comes back, how the hell am I supposed to explain those orders?]"

There was a tight feeling in Murdock's chest, gripping harder and harder with each passing second. He peeked around the corner of the door, staring in at the man sitting forward in his desk chair, gripping the phone so tightly, his hand shook. "[I handed you exactly what you asked for. I handed them to you on a silver platter! Ten million piastres is not much to ask – especially when you'll be collecting thirty. And for God's sake, don't let him get away!]"

He slammed the phone back into the cradle without another word.

The jacket had slipped out of Murdock's hand, and he let it fall as he pushed the door open a little and stepped inside. A middle-aged man with a full head of grey hair and fire in his eyes looked up and immediately locked eyes with him. A look of surprise came over his face.

"Who are you?" he demanded, startled.

Murdock knew his jaw was hanging open in shock at what he'd just heard. He was still processing the words very slowly. At the same time, he realized his hand was moving to the pistol on his belt. "I'm the pilot for the team you just sent to rob the Bank of Hanoi," he answered. His own voice sounded like it was echoing down a long, dark tunnel.

The look of surprise on his face was not without precedence. What One-Zero shared the details of their ground mission with the pilot? By all rights, Murdock should know nothing more than that they were dropped off in North Vietnam. The surprise mingled with a flicker of fear as Morrison saw where Murdock's hand was headed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

As Morrison's hand moved under his desk, the slow drift of Murdock's sped up. In an instant, he had his pistol in hand, aimed directly at the older man's forehead. "Don't even think about it," he warned.

Morrison froze, and slowly raised his hands in surrender. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly, after a long silence. "It's not like you can just shoot me and walk out of here."

_ "Listen…"_

_ "He's a traitor… Treasonous bastard…"_

_ "He sent them to die…"_

_ "Deal with the devil…"_

"You sent your own men," Murdock growled, wading through the voices that were echoing in his mind. "You deliberately sent your own men… into an ambush? And didn't even warn them?"

"No, it's not like that."

"What was the deal?"

"What deal?"

Holding the gun straight out in front of him, Murdock cocked it back with his thumb, the barrel pointed right at the man's head. "What was the deal!" He was only vaguely aware of the way his voice echoed off of the walls.

"Okay, okay!"

He felt nothing. Separated from his body by a haze of distant confusion, he stared at the scene unfolding before him without comprehending. He didn't hear the words that were spoken, as if they were in another language, and spoken to someone else very far away. Someone else was holding a gun aimed at his commanding officer. Someone else whispered something about hell and agony. Someone else saw the colonel's hand dart under the desk again and someone else pulled the trigger of the Smith & Wessen .38. Someone else stood still, staring at a lifeless body, blood pouring from two holes in his forehead.

A moment later, someone else was running down the hallway. Someone else turned back to pick up something – he wasn't sure what – from off the floor just outside the colonel's door. Someone else felt the floor shake and the walls rattle, and felt the burning heat of an explosion as he sprinted outside. Someone else was outside, and pulling another pilot out of the cockpit of a chopper by his shirt. Someone else closed the door and cranked without even looking to see if he had clearance. Someone else pulled up, into the air with an unfamiliar helicopter and headed north without even radioing for clearance or radar contact.

In seconds, the base was only a hazy memory.

Chopper blades and rattling guns. But he had no gunner. He was lost, but the map seemed to glow. "Follow the yellow brick road," the man sitting beside him sang. "Follow the yellow brick road."

"You shouldn't be there," Murdock answered. It took him a minute to remember why. "You don't know how to fly a helicopter."

"I could learn."

Green carpet below – a million jungle trees in a never-ending expanse of enemy territory. "How many clicks from Hanoi are we?" Alan asked.

"What?" Murdock stared at him, confused. "Hanoi is in the North. That's nowhere near here."

Alan smiled. "I know. Funny how that happens. Somebody must have moved it."

Bad dream. He had to be dreaming. He frowned at the controls and realized he wanted to wake up.

"You know," Alan started contemplatively. "There's supposed to be one thing you can't do in a dream."

"What's that?"

"Die."

Murdock stared out the cockpit at the trees passing below. "So if I crash… I'll wake up?"

"First, you have to go to Hanoi. Otherwise they'll die too."

"But I thought people couldn't die in a dream."

"You can't. But they can."

Murdock frowned. "I don't know the way to Hanoi."

"Let me fly, then. I know the way."

Alan knew the way.

Gunshots. Ping! Ping! Voices on the radio. Voices in the cargo area of the chopper. "Go, Murdock! Go!"

Hannibal?

"Can I wake up now?" he yelled back. "You guys won't die on me, right?"

But the cargo bay was empty. Where had Alan gone?

Blackness.

Incoherent sounds of victory. His hands were on the controls, but he couldn't feel them. Haze and distraction. Murdock eyed the green canvas below longingly. The confusion was a nightmare - everything happening so fast, the timeline so disjointed. The voices were screaming… Screaming…

The chopper was empty. Had he landed? Had they jumped out? Had they ever been here? Where was his team? He looked around at the fires of hell, blazing in the jungle below him and all around him. Screaming soldiers and secondary explosions. He didn't like this scene. The rotors were still turning. He was still flying. Fly away, to another section of Never Never Land. So many sections to explore. So little time.

Voices on the intercom, voices in his head, voices in the back of the chopper from invisible passengers. As he looked back, he could see them – bloody, mangled bodies oozing with the scent of death. Dead eyes staring at him. Colonel Morrison… "Murderer. You're a murderer."

Murdock faced forward again, turning his back on the horror of the scene behind him. He was ready to wake up now, safe in his own bed with his favorite blue blanket. Safe in his own home…

Murderer!

The sound of his own scream was the last thing he heard as the darkness engulfed him. He was only vaguely aware that he'd lost control of the chopper.

**1985**

Murdock stepped out through the front door of the mansion as Face pulled the car forward, meeting him at the bottom of the steps. He didn't hesitate, didn't look back. Just slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.

"You find her?" he asked as Face pulled away.

"They're both in the trunk."

"Awesome. Hey, check this out." Face glanced to the side and saw Murdock reach into his jacket and pull out a stack of bills.

"How much was the bounty?"

"Twenty grand."

Face smiled. "Nice."

Murdock shoved the bills back into his pocket and pulled off his baseball cap, running his hand over his hair before replacing it. "Now we just gotta get out through these gates."

"Shouldn't be a problem unless they check the trunk."

"We got a plan in case they do?"

The two of them exchanged glances, and a flicker of worry crossed Face's expression.

**1970**

"Where the hell would he have gone?" Face asked as he followed a step behind Hannibal.

The fires had all gone out at the camp in Da Nang long ago. The bodies had all been pulled from the wreckage – both the dead and the dying. The shelling had nearly leveled the GHQ; it had smoldered for days. When Murdock hadn't showed up at the LZ, they'd started walking. It had taken them more than a week to make it through to the DMZ, with only their survival training, a few meager supplies, and whatever they could confiscate along the way. And a limited supply of ammo.

"I don't know," Hannibal said quickly. "But he's not here. And I just talked to ground control. They don't know anything. There's a chopper that's been missing since the shelling. It's not his, but he might have taken it."

"Why wouldn't he get clearance from ground control?" Face asked. "That doesn't even make any sense."

It somehow made even less sense that he would fly anything but his own bird if he had the choice. Hannibal locked eyes on a man in a flight suit, staring at the sky with a slightly glazed look. "Hey!" Hannibal yelled, walking right up to him.

The man jumped to attention. "Sir?"

Hannibal eyed the wings pinned to his chest, then pointed to the chopper he was standing beside. "Can you fly that?"

Startled, the man stared for a moment. "I… yes. I just…" "Colonel Smith," Hannibal introduced impatiently, shaking the man's hand. He used his other hand to throw his gear into the back of the chopper. "Get in and get your clearance."

The man stared at him, stunned. The two beside him – presumably the engineer and the gunner since they didn't have the telltale pilot's wings – exchanged glances and jumped up into the back of the Huey as the pilot called to another man. In seconds, he'd recruited a right-side co-pilot, and they began pre-flight check.

"Why wouldn't he get clearance?" Face asked again, setting his gear aside.

"Maybe it had something to do with the shelling," Hannibal suggested. "If I had to guess."

Face glanced around, feeling like he was missing something. "Where's BA?"

"Shit…" Hannibal growled. "He's looking for Colonel Morrison. Go find him, will you?"

Face vaulted out of the back of the chopper and Hannibal grabbed the headset off of the wall. "Where are we going, sir?" the AC called back.

"We're looking for a downed Huey," he called. "Somewhere between here and Nha Trang."

It made no sense, but Hannibal had learned long ago to trust that gut feeling. And right now, his gut was that Murdock had headed for Nha Trang – the one place in the world that he shouldn't have wanted to go.


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

**1985**

The first gate was easy – a smile and a wave from Face, a crazed look from Murdock, and they were on their merry way. But as they approached the second one, they immediately knew something was wrong. The iron gate was closed tight, and the guards stood in front of it with guns ready.

Face shifted nervously as he slowed his approach. No way the sedan could plow through those bars even if there weren't armed men standing in front of them. He was going to have to stop. "Hey, didn't Hannibal say they planted some charges at one of these gates?" Murdock reminded, well aware of the problem as Face took his foot off the gas.

Face glanced at him, then grabbed the handheld radio off the seat. "BA? You there?" He took his finger off the trigger and prayed.

"Yeah, I'm here."

Face let out a sigh of relief. "Where did you say those charges were planted?"

"At the second gate. Why?"

"Did you set them up to take the second gate _out_?"

"Yeah."

He came to a stop just a few feet away and the two men standing guard marched toward his car.

"And you've still got the detonator?"

"Yeah."

"Great. Would you mind blowing those for me?" Face put the car in reverse and backed up a few yards. Startled, the guards all leveled their weapons at his car. They never had a chance to fire.

The damage done by a few well-placed claymore mines was impressive. As the gate blew off its hinges and landed a good five feet away, crashing against a tree, the guards all hit the dirt and Face hit the gas. By the time the smoke cleared, they were halfway to the next gate.

"Don't suppose I could get you to convince the guard at gate three to open up, could you?" Face asked into the radio.

"Yeah."

Face set the radio on the seat and slowed a little, giving BA time to accomplish his assignment. Before the third gate was even in sight, Face heard the rattle of gunfire from an M-16. Gate three was wide open when they passed, and the van – with BA and his assault rifle staring out the driver's seat – peeled out ahead of them. With gas pedals to the floor, Face and BA matched each other's pace as they put as much distance between themselves and Corrolini as possible.

**1970**

There had been a battle here. Huge craters from artillery shells dotted the ground below them – twenty yards wide and at least ten feet deep. Some were much deeper, depending on what they'd hit. The torrential rains from the past week before had filled the bottoms of the craters, soaking the sand with more water than it could absorb It didn't help that they were so close to a flooding river, and a high water table. There were tiny little lakes at the bottom of each of the holes. In the middle of the devastated landscape, on its side in a mess of mangled trees, was a helicopter. It was a vision from hell, an alien landscape, strange and foreign and reeking of death and destruction.

The unfamiliar pilot had set them down a few hundred yards away in an LZ that had been hacked out of the underbrush some time ago. "What, uh…?" Without any orders except from the colonel who was jumping out of the back of the landed Huey, he wasn't entirely sure where to go now. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just stay here!" Hannibal yelled back over the deafening sound of the rotors overhead. "If you have any trouble, get off the ground, stay close by. We'll be in contact!"

He didn't give the pilot a chance to protest. M-16 in hand, he followed a few steps behind Face and BA as they took off toward the downed chopper. By the time he reached the mangled remains, Face was already crawling up into it. Hannibal and BA scanned the trees as he searched it, then dropped back down. "He's not in there," Face said quickly. "No blood, no sign of him."

"Sweep the area," Hannibal ordered. "And make it fast. No telling how long that LZ will stay green for us."

"Right."

They split into three directions, and searched the area. It was a speed that none of them were used to traveling. Caution had always taken precedence over quickness. But given that they'd just spent a week in North Vietnam, through the jungle in a mad dash to get back to friendly soil, it wasn't the most dangerous thing they'd done lately. Not by a long shot.

Hannibal stopped at the top of one of the craters, and looked down. Bodies were floating in the bloody water, and propped against the sloping sides towards the bottom. NVA uniforms. Hannibal frowned as he studied the scene. What had killed them? If it had been the shelling itself, they would be burned, broken, blown apart. They weren't. They were bloody. Some kind of dump site?

As he narrowed his eyes at the scene, he suddenly realized that amidst the rapidly decomposing heap of corpses, there was a set of eyes staring directly at him. Instantly, he had his weapon pointed and ready. He didn't shoot, just watched. "Anyone alive down there?"

The face around the eyes was covered in blood and mud and filth; it was impossible to tell if he was looking at a friend or foe. It was impossible to tell for certain if he was alive. Corpses with their eyes open always seemed to stare blankly at survivors. It could just be a coincidence that he was standing in the line of sight.

The eyes blinked.

Hannibal whistled sharply, three times. Within seconds, Face skidded to a stop beside him. BA was not far behind. "One of those bodies is alive." Hannibal shrugged his M-16 off of his shoulder and set it on the ground at his feet.

Face stared. "Are you fucking kidding?" He stared down into the deep crater. "Hey! We're Americans! Either answer or start shootin' if you're alive!"

"You keep that up, Face," Hannibal said quickly, unfastening his pack, "and they probably will. From the trees." He pointed back over Face's shoulder, reminding him that they were in enemy territory. If a battle had taken place here recently, the area was probably still swarming with enemy soldiers. He was surprised they hadn't been shot at yet. It was as if even the killers in the trees feared the thing in the dump.

"You ain't really goin' down in there," BA pleaded, his voice filled with worry and disbelief in equal amounts. He watched as Hannibal's pack hit the ground. "All those uniforms down there are NVA. That's probably another one of 'em."

"Or it could be Murdock."

BA's eyes widened at that. Hannibal knew that he hadn't even considered the thought. He'd been so distracted by the bloody sight, and the putrid smell, that he just assumed the carnage was left over from the battle – the same way Hannibal had when he'd first seen it.

"If it was Murdock, why wouldn't he answer?" Face asked quietly, solemnly.

Hannibal pulled a rope from his pack. It wouldn't hold two men, but it would hold one. It also wasn't long enough to tie to any of the trees and still reach all the way down into the hole. He handed it to BA, taking one end. BA shot him a worried look as he shouldered his M-16.

"Face, you keep a close eye on those trees," Hannibal ordered, slipping his gloves over his hands and pulling the pistol from his ankle holster. "I'll watch this guy."

Face turned to face the trees, wordlessly.

"You better make it quick, Hannibal," BA warned.

Hannibal clapped a hand over his shoulder and wrapped the rope twice around his hand before backing towards the edge of the crater. BA let him down a few feet at a time. This sort of rappelling had been both practiced and used before, and it was nothing new. As Hannibal came within a few feet of the bloody water's surface, he whistled sharply and the rope went taut, no longer lowering him.

He kept his pistol pointed directly at the eyes that were most definitely tracking him. Brown eyes. But the shape of the head didn't match the bodies that lay all around him. They were all dead - throats slit, blood drained into the pool that the lone survivor lay submerged in, peeking out only enough to breathe… and watch.

The smell nearly made Hannibal sick. He choked back the rising bile and took a breath. "Murdock," he said softly. The eyes blinked again. There was otherwise no response. "Murdock, it's Hannibal." He still couldn't be sure if the man he was speaking to was, in fact, HM Murdock. He wasn't even sure the eyes were human.

He gave another quick whistle, and lowered a few more feet, into the water. He was standing on bodies. Rotting, bloated bodies, decaying all around him. The water was deep red - a thick sludge of blood, also rotting. He ignored it as he lowered down further, halfway up his chest before he finally touched the bottom of the crater. He let out a sigh of relief as his feet found solid ground.

Suddenly, movement. It came without warning – a figure launching at him and a knife. Instinct said to shoot. He didn't shoot. That was most definitely _not _a Vietnamese. Too tall. He met the attack head on, disregarding fear as he grabbed the arm that was slashing at him with the knife. He lost the gun as he grabbed the man's arm. The pistol hit the surface of the blood-water and sank before he could even think to grab for it. But his attacker had lost his grip on the knife as well, and Hannibal twisted his arm behind him as he slammed him – face first, into the dirt wall.

"Hannibal!" BA sounded almost frantic. "Hannibal, you okay?"

"Just fine, BA!"

The man was still struggling. But Hannibal had him pinned. "Murdock!" he hissed. "Murdock, listen to me! It's okay!" Murdock was not listening. But it _was _Murdock. He knew that for certain now.

Hannibal grabbed the rope, and set to the task of tying it around an unwilling subject who was thrashing violently. He kept him facing the wall; it was the only advantage he had.

"Is it him, Hannibal?" BA called down. "Is it Murdock?"

"It's him," Hannibal answered. "Pull him up, but be careful! He's violent!"

Instantly, BA pulled the rope that Hannibal had secured around Murdock's waist. Hannibal jumped back to avoid the flailing arms and legs. As he left the water, the traumatized man let out the most blood-curdling scream Hannibal had ever heard in his life. It was enough to make Face turn and look over the side of the crater.

"What in fucking hell is –" He saw Murdock before he had a chance to finish. "Jesus!"

"Face, get the morphine out of the front of my pack!" Hannibal ordered. Face disappeared again.

Hannibal stood in the bloody water, submerged up to his chest, and shut his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts. Murdock was still screaming. As Hannibal looked around him, he counted ten bodies. There were more beneath the surface of the water. They were piled on top of each other. How many men had he killed down here? How many men had stumbled into it the same way he most likely had? How long had he been down here, unable to climb out, with no food, no water, surrounded by the men whose throats he'd cut?

Hannibal shut his eyes hard. Taking himself away from the sight, away from the smell, away from the thoughts of what it would be like to spend a week down here. It had been a week since he'd crashed… and he wasn't very far from the crash site. Seven days in this pit – six long, dark nights, entombed with the bodies of those he'd killed. He didn't want to think about it. He _couldn't _think about it.

"Hannibal!"

He looked up suddenly. Face had lowered the rope again. "Come on, Colonel, I don't know how long BA can hold him."

Hannibal was all too happy to grab the rope and climb out of the pit. As he reached the level ground, he immediately and instinctively scanned the trees. There was nothing. There would be, though. It wouldn't take long before Murdock's screaming would attract them.

"Morphine," he ordered, before he'd even hoisted himself fully out of the pit. Face had a hold of his arm, and helped him find his balance.

"It's going to take all three of us to hold him down, Hannibal."

"Get it."

"It's right here." Face had already filled the syringe.

Murdock was fighting BA's grip with fists and feet and teeth. As Hannibal approached with the syringe, he stopped screaming and put all of his energy into his struggle. "Get him on the ground," Hannibal ordered.

It was easier said than done. Finally, they pinned him facedown, and BA pulled one arm behind his back before he sat on it. Face held his feet. Hannibal used his knees to hold down his wrist, turning his arm and shoving the dripping, blood-soaked sleeve up as far as he could. Murdock howled in agony. Hannibal ignored him.

"Don't let him move his shoulder, BA."

It was inhumane. It was brutal and appalling. And it was the only thing that they could do. If they couldn't calm him down, he was going to get them killed. And there was no way to get through to him in his current state.

Hannibal had to find a vein. Each time, he found himself cursing Cruiser for his absence. Damn him for escaping this. Damn him for not being here, even if he _was _injured. Damn Face for those injuries, and anyone that might've stopped him – including Hannibal himself. Damn Cruiser for being the one among them who could've gotten the vein on the first stick, even in spite of Murdock's dehydration. It took Hannibal four tries before he finally injected the syringe full of clear fluid.

He stood up and tossed the syringe aside before picking up his pack and quickly fastening it. "Come on," he said roughly, putting his M-16 over his shoulder again. "Bring him."

Dragging the struggling, violent man through the jungle to the LZ was no easy task. The only thing they had on their side was the apparent lack of enemy soldiers in the immediate area. The morphine didn't even seem to affect him. Hannibal had never seen anything like it. After a week in that pit, any man should've been almost dead. How did he even have the energy to fight, much less to fight three grown men? To fight BA…

The chopper was still on the ground, rotors still spinning. Hannibal could see the look of relief on the pilot's face… until he saw the blood that both Hannibal and Murdock were soaked in, and realized that they were not merely escorting Murdock; they were holding him down.

"Is that your man?" the pilot yelled as Hannibal ran ahead of the other three.

"Yeah."

Wide eyed, the pilot shook his head. "Sir, I'll only take him if you tie him down! If he gets into the cockpit, he could kill us all."

Hannibal nodded, and slid the seven-foot aluminum pole out of the canvas seat in the cargo area of the Huey. Before they loaded their passenger into the Huey, they tied him to it. It didn't escape Hannibal's notice, as they lifted off the ground, that the crew's gunner had an M-16 pointed straight at Murdock as he lay on the floor of the chopper, still thrashing. He screamed and cursed and cried nonsensical threats in every language known to him, loud enough to be understood clearly even over the sounds of the Huey.

"Hannibal, are you okay?"

He turned, and looked up at Face, who had a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Lieutenant."

As Face turned away, and knelt on the floor next to Murdock, Hannibal watched him. He suddenly realized that he was not fine. He'd been submerged in blood, and could still smell the decay and bodily fluids that completely saturated his clothing. Finally – and too suddenly – he was sick. He turned away from the bloody, broken shell of a man who was still screaming and thrashing as Face tried to calm him.

Leaning as far forward as he could, Hannibal put his head between his knees and heaved. He knew then that he would never escape the memory of that pit, even in the brief time that he'd been in it. The bloated bodies, throats all cut. The smell that still saturated him, choking him. He clutched his stomach as it twisted painfully. The screams of his own man – not dead, but not alive – were echoing in his ears as he shook violently.

He felt a hand on his back – BA, if he had to guess - but ignored him.

"I assume you want me to take you to Nha Trang," the AC called over the intercom.

Hannibal didn't answer. His stomach emptied, and still dripping blood from his drenched fatigues, he sat up a little and hugged himself. Surrounded by the smell of death and Murdock's agonized screams, Hannibal covered his eyes with his blood-soaked hands, leaned forward, and wept bitterly.


	26. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

"You okay?"

Murdock swallowed hard, and nodded slowly. As he watched Alan shake hands with Hannibal, Murdock hung back, clenching his own hands together harder to stop them from shaking.

"The official report said something about the water being too deep."

Murdock blinked, confused. "What?"

"You asked me how I cleared up the mess in the Bong Son River."

"Oh."

In the long silence that followed, Murdock's mind wandered back. Finally, he raised a brow. "How did the water depth have anything to do with it?"

"Hell if I know," Face shrugged. "Snap wrote it up for me. I just signed my name to the report. And I'll have you know that nobody actually believed it."

"I guess it's just as well we weren't over there long after that," Murdock considered quietly.

"You could've easily been discharged," Face agreed. "And I would've been court marshaled for falsifying that report."

Silence. Murdock shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground, paying close attention to every breath in his effort to keep his breathing slow and even. Finally, he looked up, his expression pained. "You know that's the last thing I remember clear? From over there? It's the last thing that…"

Face watched him for a moment, then lowered his eyes away. He didn't have to say that he didn't want to talk about it. Murdock could feel it from where he stood. It wasn't surprising. To say that Murdock didn't remember clearly was not to say that he didn't remember at all. He didn't want to think about it. The images in his mind, the flashes of memories made no sense. Frankly, they scared him.

But he couldn't help it.

"Do you ever wonder…" He glanced up, watching from a distance while Hannibal said a few words to Alan's daughter. "Ever wonder how different it could've been?" He glanced back at Face and caught his gaze briefly before they both looked away from each other. "Like… if he'd never been sent to that camp?"

"What camp?"

"A Shau. I never would've gone after him. I might've never even met you guys." He paused, and lowered his head, letting the silence linger before he finally finished, "I guess a lot of things would've turned out different."

Face shoved his hands deep into his pockets with a shrug. "No sense brooding about it."

"I'm not brooding," Murdock clarified. "Just… wondering."

"If it makes you feel any better, I would've probably been dead a hundred times over with a lesser pilot." Face paused, lowering his head and studying the ground as he leaned against the van. When he continued, it was so quiet, Murdock barely even heard him. "Or friend."

Murdock took a deep breath, and let it out slow, watching as Alan and his daughter stepped onto a bus without so much as a wave back at him. Maybe it should've bothered him. But it didn't. Maybe the fact that he felt nothing was part of what felt so… wrong.

"Are you okay?" Face asked after a long silence. "You've really been… out of it. Since he showed up."

"You ever had a memory that's so bad you can't even remember it?" Murdock asked abruptly.

Face's eyes shut. "Murdock…" His voice was low, edgy. Was that pain? "Please don't go there."

"Everything after that crash in the river…" Murdock chewed his lip, wringing his hands again. "It's a blur. I remember… little flashes like snapshots. But I can't put the pieces together."

Face rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension that had suddenly gathered there. "That's probably not a bad thing."

Murdock wouldn't let it rest. He couldn't. "My last day… my last flight… in Vietnam. After I dropped you guys off, I mean…" He turned and looked at Face. "Do you remember that?"

Face sighed. "I remember what I saw of it."

Murdock swallowed hard, and shut his eyes. "I remember hittin' the ground," he whispered quietly. "And I remember this… black hole. And I couldn't climb out of it. And these trees would fall down in it and they'd almost hit me. And this big dragon that flew overhead. Huge dragon that screamed and screamed…"

Hearing the way that his breathing hitched, he opened his eyes again, and focused on his surroundings. Slow, deep breaths. He glanced at Face, and saw him staring at the ground intently. "My shrink keeps tryin' to get me to remember," he said quietly. He shook his head, and closed his eyes again. "I don't wanna remember, Face. I don't wanna know. I don't wanna know why the trees were fallin' down. I don't wanna know what the dragon was. And I don't wanna know how I was layin' on the floor in the back of a Huey with you talkin' to me and I was covered, covered in -"

"Then don't," Face interrupted, his tone as firm as it was cold. Murdock looked up at him again and saw his eyes empty. His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued. "Let the dead bury their own dead, Murdock."

He looked away again. "I… sometimes I still can see these eyes lookin' at me. These dead… empty eyes just starin' at me, Face. An' I can hear them talkin' to me. I can feel… I can feel them looking right into my soul and I hear what they're sayin' and it –"

"Murdock!" Face interrupted again.

Murdock looked up and read the pained look. It was more emotion than Face _ever _let show. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't even want to hear about it. Murdock couldn't blame him.

"It's over," Face said quietly. "It's been over a long time."

Licking his lips to bring moisture back to his mouth, Murdock turned his head away. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly. His eyes drifted to the bus as it pulled away, heading for destinations unknown. "So why the hell did he have to come an' bring it all back up?"

Face leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Face stood up. "Come on," he said.

Murdock glanced up at him, unsure. "Where are we going?"

"Just come on." The smile was fake, forced. But he'd given it his best shot. Murdock appreciated the effort. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

Face turned as they both started walking, and put an arm around Murdock's shoulders, leading him toward the Corvette. "This is over," Face said with a false reassurance. "Let me buy you a drink."

AN: THANKS FOR READING! REVIEWS/FEEDBACK APPRECIATED! THIS IS THE FIRST BOOK IN A SERIES AND THE SECOND BOOK, TITLED "THE NATURE OF TRUST" WILL BEGIN POSTING SHORTLY. IT WILL BE RATED R, SO IF YOU READ IT HERE, YOU'LL HAVE TO CHANGE THE SETTINGS SO THAT YOU'LL BE ABLE TO SEE IT (SINCE ONLY G-PG13 RATINGS SHOW UP BY DEFAULT). THE OTHER OPTION IS THAT YOU CAN READ IT ON MY WEBSITE, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. THERE'S A REVIEW OPTION THERE AS WELL AND I SOMETIMES UPDATE IT MORE QUICKLY THAN . CHECK MY PROFILE FOR MY SITE ADDRESS! THANKS AGAIN FOR ALL THE FEEDBACK! - FIG


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